


Oakland

by AgentCoop



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AO3 is kink shaming me, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Coming of Age, Enemies to Lovers, Exy (All For The Game), Hurt Neil Josten, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Juvie, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison, Protective Andrew Minyard, Roommates, Sass, Self-Defense, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Standing so close they almost brush noses but not quite, Therapy, Violence, all the sass, disaster Andrew Minyard who doesn't have any control over his emotions yet, why is that not a tag.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 63,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26446165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop
Summary: When Neil Josten gets arrested for a fake ID and thrown into the Juvenile Detention System, he knows that he's running on borrowed time before his father's men catch up.His mother is dead, there's nowhere to run, there's nothing left at all but an Exy court at the Oakland County Detention Center that he has to earn the right to play on through good behavior.And Neil's never been great at obeying rules.***An Andriel AU where the boys meet as teens in Juvie.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 718
Kudos: 1104





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Updating the notes here :)
> 
> Somewhere on Nora's blog, she mentions that Andrew came to terms with his sexuality in Juvie- so this started a bit as an offshoot of that. I have plans of taking it all the way up to canon and beyond, so it's going to be a long ride! Really hope you enjoy <3 <3 <3
> 
> ***This fic is being translated into Russian [HERE](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9897075)  
> 

The hallway they walked was dismal–white painted cinder block scummy with age that were more frequently than not adorned in not-so-clever phrases and gang signs scrawled in pencil. Neil scowled as he kept up with Brian, who’d introduced himself as Neil’s _youth specialist_ as soon as Neil had gotten past the security checkpoints and into the actual building.

“Classes are down the hall, 7:30 AM, do not be late. Two phones, you get one call a week. Rec room there–” Brian pointed and Neil gave an obligatory scan of the dirty linoleum, small box television, and twenty or so plastic chairs filled with the bodies of teenage boys.

It smelled like sweat.

“Don’t lose your sweatshirt. You don’t get another.” He said this in the same monotonous voice that he’d relayed all other information–like he’d given the speech hundreds of times.

“Losing sweatshirts’ a common issue?” Neil asked drily.

Brian shrugged, face betraying absolutely nothing but boredom.

They continued down the hall in silence, then turned left and went up the stairs and through a set of barred doors. The whole block smelled like metal and must, because what else would hell smell like.

“Rehabilitation therapy appointments are three times a week.” Brian slowed to study his clipboard. “You are at 1PM, Monday, Wednesday, Friday. They’ll give you a schedule. Dr. Dobson.”

Neil grimaced.

“Dinner at 4:30 PM, lights out at 9PM, do not be late–”

“There’s an exy court, yeah?”

Pausing, Brian turned and gave him a once over. “There’s an exy court for kids who earn it. No one else.”

“And here I was thinking it was one of the free amenities the facility had to offer.”

“Smart ass, huh? Let’s see how far that gets you.”

They stopped at a solid white cell door with only a tiny 1x1 window. Brian rapped on it three times before grabbing the keys at his belt and unlocking the door. “Rec time is done in 10 minutes, then it’s in-room until dinner.” He motioned Neil into the room. “Hope you enjoy your stay."

The door closed with a muffled thump, and Neil was left surveying a tiny room with a single twin bunk bed, two dressers, a single mirror above the dressers that he shied away from, and a toilet and sink behind a divider that was a hideous 70s olive green color.

It was small, there was no window, and it was apparently going to be his home for the next year and a half.

There was no one else in the room, but the top bunk had a tangled mess of white sheets and was clearly already claimed, just like the dresser closest to the bed that boasted a stub of a pencil, a notepad, and a couple of paperback books.

Sighing, Neil moved across the room and stashed his meager pile of belongings into one of the drawers of the empty dresser–an extra blanket, an extra pair of sweatpants, two black t-shirts, two pairs of black briefs, two pairs of white socks, and the sweatshirt that was apparently coveted by enough of the inmates that it warranted a warning from the guard.

He wasn’t thrilled about the idea of sleeping on the bottom bunk–top would have been a lot easier to know if someone was coming up or coming close–but he convinced himself that bottom would work, if only because it would be a faster route out of the room should the need arise.

There was a clock over the door–the sort of circular white kind with the metal grate over it that Neil could remember being in all of his elementary school classrooms. The second hand was ticking away.

Six minutes until he’d have the delightful privilege of meeting the asshole who he’d be sharing his space with.

Neil’s eyes flickered towards the communal toilet and tried to swallow down the anxiety at the thought of having no privacy.

It didn’t work.

He was here, he was stuck here, he was going to be found, he was going to die, he was going to die, he was going to die–

Neil sucked in a deep breath and fisted his hands in his sweatpants, forcing his body into a semblance of calm that was going to have to last long enough to last his 18 month stint.

Five minutes.

He went for the other guy’s dresser.

In the bottom drawer, there was a pair of fingerless gloves, a couple of pairs of sports socks that were longer than the issued ones that Neil had received, and extra t-shirts and shorts.

Neil went through these quickly, pawing at the back of the dresser but coming up with nothing extra.

The next drawer was much the same–the same blanket that Neil had been given, along with two sweatshirts. Neil’s eyebrows rose at that as he wondered who’d been stupid enough to lose one.

The top drawer held the same shirts, briefs, and socks that Neil had.

It also held a small bundle of letters.

Four minutes.

Neil pulled them out and quickly studied the envelopes. Some were addressed to an Andrew Doe , some to Andrew Minyard ℅ State of California, Oakland Juvenile Detention Facility.

All were from a return address in California, surname Spear.

He gave a quick read through everything, tucking facts about the foster mom who loved Andrew enough to write every week into his memory for the future. If he was going to be sharing space, he wanted to learn absolutely everything he could about the guy–because where Neil came from?

Secrets got people killed.

He folded the letters back up, but stuck them all in the wrong envelopes. Then he carefully rearranged all the drawers so that everything was still neatly folded, but clearly put in different places. It was organized chaos–the type that he hoped would set Andrew on edge just enough to be nervous.

The three books on the dresser turned out to be a disappointing mix of old classics–Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, and Frankenstein.

They did not inspire hope for an abundance of interesting reading material in the detention center library.

He took the copy of Great Expectations and set it on Andrew’s pillow, then sat down on the lower bunk to wait for the door to open again.

It didn’t take long.

“Don’t kill him, Minyard,” Neil heard another man say outside the door, and then it pushed open, revealing a kid even shorter than Neil with messy blond hair, a bruise purpling the entire left side of his jaw, and the same pair of standard issue sweatpants and t-shirt that Neil was currently dressed in.

“Hey, roomie,” Neil drawled, refusing to stand up.

Andrew’s eyes narrowed in displeasure as he stepped into the room, then they flicked up towards the dresser.

“Don’t kill him.” The man was wearing the same blue shirt and khaki pants that Brian wore–but his badge had flipped over so that Neil couldn’t see his name. They regarded each other for just a second, then the door shut, leaving Andrew and Neil alone in the room.

Andrew didn’t say anything, but he walked over to the dresser and brushed a hand along the top of the two remaining books, mouth narrowing with tension.

“Like Dickens?” Neil taunted.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Andrew turned to face Neil. He was completely still, but Neil could see the line of his jaw grow tight.

 _Your mouth will get you killed_ , his mom had said once.

It probably would.

Neil wasn’t sure why he was pushing the issue so much, only that if he’d learned anything from his youth, it was that domination was the only tactic worth shit--he wasn’t about to spend his time here as a meek little lapdog to whatever punk they’d thrown him in with.

He quickly turned away from that thought, though, and focused all of his energy on one _Andrew Minyard_ who hadn’t moved an inch, instead of prodding at the poisonous self hate that twisted underneath every inch of his skin.

“Guess it fits the profile,” Neil continued, gesturing towards the copy of Oliver Twist. “Wayward youth and all.”

“Keep your hands off my shit,” Andrew growled.

“It speaks!”

Andrew pulled open his drawers and started putting everything back where it was supposed to be, the line of his spine the edge of a blade.

“Well, glad that’s out of the way,” Neil said. He stood up and leaned against the bed, still avoiding the mirror. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Andrew whirled around and sunk his fist right into Neil’s gut.

There was a single moment of surprise, then nothing but white hot pain. Neil curled in on himself as he collapsed to the floor on hands and knees–fingers scrabbling for purchase while he fought to breathe.

“Keep your hands off my shit,” Andrew repeated. “If you puke on the floor, you’re cleaning it up.” Then he swung himself up the ladder and onto the bed, not sparing another glance for Neil.

Neil stayed down far longer than he’d have liked– enough to get his breathing under control, and admit to himself that he’d severely underestimated his roommate. Every gasp sent pain rattling through his insides, but he finally pushed up to his knees and wrapped an arm around himself, glaring at the floor. He’d deserved it, but he also hadn’t expected a kid smaller than he was to pack a punch like that. It took an eternity to find his feet again, but Neil finally made it, anger running hot and foul through his blood as he looked up at the top bunk.

Andrew was lying on his bed, one knee pulled up–the other leg bent and propped up against it. His foot kicked at the ceiling, _thump, thump, thump._ The line of his jaw was tight, and Neil could see the little flutter of pulse at Andrew’s throat–much faster than a resting heartbeat.

Neil finally looked away and folded himself into the bottom bunk where he laid back, closed his eyes, and tried to let his rage drown out the impossible panic threatening to devour him from the inside out.

***

_They find him squatting in an abandoned home outside of Oakland. It’s in the police cruiser back to the station that the guy turns around with a smile and lets him know that **it’s going to be okay.**_

It’s not.

_Nothing is ever going to be okay again._

_He can still smell gasoline when he sleeps, he scrubs imaginary blood from beneath his fingernails and he can hear her voice in his head with every decision he makes._

_**Run** , she’s saying now. **Run, run, run.**_

_He can’t._

_They find out at the station that the ID labeled Stefan Weber is a fake, and suddenly his life is being dissected right in front of him by an entire room of shitty cops who tell are telling him **it’s not going to be okay** , because they need to know right the fuck now who he is so they can help him._

_He laughs in their face, while choking on terror that’s about to swallow him whole._

_**What if, what if, what if** circles around him, a dire, shrieking mantra that drowns out everything else in the room until finally they let him curl up on a cot to sleep, in a room with double sided windows because fuck if they’re losing track of a boy without a name, without a past, without anything._

_They track him back to Neil Josten, and he has to fight not to grin like an idiot because Neil Josten is only one alias ago–those papers apparently held stronger than Stefan. He's going to be found eventually, but right now Nathaniel Wesninski is still a ghost who no one but Neil can hear._

_The words foster care are bandied about. There’s a system in place for troubled youth but it’s been broken long before Neil entered the scene._

_Eventually, there’s a courtroom, and a judge, and a room full of nobody when he’s sentenced to juvie for possession of a fake ID._

_For now it’s Oakland Juvenile Detention Facility for 18 months–long enough for ‘Neil Josten’ to turn 18 and age out._

_It’s a building surrounded by barbed wire, in the middle of a city not quite large enough to get lost in. His alias is in the system now. There’s a whole file on Neil Josten, and if his father’s people catch on, he’s done._

_There’s an Exy court, though. That’s something._

_**Run,** his mother whispers in his ear._

_**There’s nowhere to run to** , he thinks._

_**Not anymore.** _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the support!!! I'm really looking forward to exploring Neil and Andrew as teens--I imagine that it took a lot of time for them both to grow the *impenetrable wall* personas, and really wanted to explore them younger and far more volatile. Hopefully characterization is hitting enough still--I kind of headcanon that Neil is a disaster who hasn't yet learned how to control all of his fear and panic.
> 
> ANYWAY. I hope you enjoy, comments mean the absolute world to me, and thanks so much for reading!

Waiting for dinner took an eternity. Their room was stifling hot, and there was absolutely nothing to do but sit and sweat. Eventually, Andrew stopped kicking the ceiling. Neil could still hear him breathing above him–steady and quick enough to be awake–but otherwise, the only sound in the room was the obnoxious ticking of the clock on the wall. He tried to hold himself as still as Andrew seemed to be doing, but his panic was winning out.

By the time a buzzer rang in the hall and the lock to the door clicked open, Neil was barely holding on by a thread.

Andrew didn’t move above him, so Neil slowly slid out and stood. He didn’t want his back to Andrew, but 4:30 meant dinner, and he wasn’t going to skip it just because his roommate was an asshole.

The sound of raucous boys making their way down the hall leaked into the room. Neil nudged the door open but before he could slip out into the chaos, Andrew stepped up behind him and slammed it closed.

“Not so fast, rabbit.”

He hadn’t even heard the other boy move at all–no sound from the bunk, no footsteps. Neil wasn’t exactly in top mental shape at the moment, but he’d spent enough years on the run hyper aware of his surroundings at all times. Having Andrew sneak up so easily was more than enough to cause his heart rate to skyrocket.

Neil’s jaw clenched.

Andrew’s palm was still affixed to the door, and he didn’t budge as Neil turned to face him.

“I’m not planning on starving just because you have a bone to pick,” Neil said.

Andrew’s mouth curved into a tight grin. “Meals scarce where you are from? Parental…” his grin grew wider, “...issues?”

Neil refused to answer.

“Rumor has it, you got picked up for a fake ID. Rumor has it, it was not _just_ a license either.”

“Funny, didn’t realize my case was front page news.”

“Full on double life and everything,” Andrew continued, grin growing wider. “What are you running from, rabbit?”

“The muffin man,” Neil deadpanned.

“I’ll figure you out.”

“I’m sure the heavily-monitored computer access you manage to squeeze into your otherwise thrilling schedule is going to yield great results. Good luck. Can I eat now?”

Andrew pushed back from the door and gestured towards it with a shrug, eyes flat and bored. “After you.”

As much as Neil loathed to have Andrew at his back, his entire body was buzzing with the need to get out of the tiny, cramped room. He turned around and opened the door again–this time with no resistance from Andrew–and followed the sound of the other boys down the hall. His entire body was tense, waiting for another blow from Andrew, or just more questions.

Andrew stayed silent, but by the time they reached the dining hall, Neil was even more on edge.

How’d he know? Why did he know? Neil’s case was small–it went through the juvenile courts and definitely didn’t make the news. If it had, he’d have an even bigger target on his back than he did currently–an anonymous kid turns up with an entire fake identity?

It wouldn’t take rocket science to find him.

Neil self-consciously grabbed at his hair, wincing as his fingers tangled in the strands. It was brown now, but how long would it be before the red roots started showing?

“Take a tray, dumbass,” someone said behind him and Neil blinked to find himself standing in front of a metal cart filled with dozens of dull pink plastic lunch trays. He mumbled an apology and grabbed one, then followed the line of boys through the dinner offerings, which ended up being a meager white bread and cheese sandwich, a helping of baked beans, a small red apple, and a carton of milk.

It looked exactly like what he’d imagined jail food to look like, but that didn’t make him feel any better.

The tables were already filled with kids–most looked to be right around his age, so there must have been another wing for the younger ones. Neil had no desire to sit himself down in the middle of a crowded table, but upon a brief scan of the cafeteria, the only table with any open space at all was the one that Andrew sat on top of–one knee drawn up to his chest, the other foot brushing against the bench, no food in sight, and eyes focused like knives on Neil.

Neil hated him.

There were a couple of security guards standing at the perimeters of the room, and one of them gave a very pointed stare in Neil’s direction.

The constant chatter reverberating off the walls was giving Neil a migraine, and his skin was crawling at the thought of being locked back up in a room for 12 hours with nowhere to run, but every time he closed his eyes, he could imagine his mom’s disappointment in him.

Sitting anonymously amongst the chaos only meant having more time to fixate on all the shit going on in his head. At least sitting near Andrew provided him enough variety to turn his mind away from her screams.

Neil sighed, then headed towards that empty table, sparing only a single, solitary thought for why no one else wanted to be anywhere near Andrew Minyard, before he set the tray down on the table and sank down onto the bench.

“Miss me?” Andrew said.

“Hungry?” Neil replied. He picked up half of his sandwich and very pointedly looked at Andrew as he took a large bite.

The bread was soggy, the cheese was warm, but it wasn’t any worse than the shit Neil ate with his mom. They’d once survived off of Ramen and cans of tuna for an entire month–at least this didn’t smell like fish. He chewed and tried to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat. It was getting hard to breathe.

“People don't like to sit here,” Andrew said. “It’s generally considered a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea.”

“The scent of asshole carries. I don’t blame them.”

Andrew smiled, then quickly turned and slid into the bench, scooting close to Neil. He hunched down over the table and lay his head in his arms, watching Neil, but not speaking another word.

It was uncomfortable, but Neil refused to let it phase him. He very slowly and deliberately chewed his sandwich, watching Andrew the entire time, refusing to look away. The baked beans were disgusting, but he forced his way through those as well.

As soon as he finished those, Andrew leaned over and snagged his apple. He took a bite, spraying juice far enough that it landed on Neil’s tray.

Neil kept his fists from tightening by sheer strength of will, then stood up and snagged his tray. “Later, Roomie,” he called, then walked his tray back to where he saw other kids stacking theirs.

He wanted to explore, to find the library, to see the exy court, to _move_ somewhere, but there were security guards standing at all the exits and it was obvious that no one was supposed to be leaving the cafeteria. Neil settled for leaning against one of the painted cinder block walls and watching the other kids.

Some of them were quiet. Some were laughing and joking and looking like they were actually friends. It looked less like punishment and more like…

School.

He’d never experienced middle school. There wasn’t time for much between the country hopping and the language learning and his mom beating him to shit if he didn’t listen.

As far as highschool, his mom had enrolled him briefly in Germany under one of his aliases, but it was mostly to keep up appearances, and become more familiar with the language. He wasn’t there to make friends, he was there to blend in and pretend to be _normal_. It was supposed to be safe.

It wasn’t.

He’d been shot on the way to class one day and barely made it to the safehouse in time for her to pull the bullet out, stitch him up, and run again.

A crazed yelp came from the other end of the cafeteria and Neil shook the memory from his head, turning to watch the commotion as one kid crawled up on a table and smacked a tray on top of another kid’s head. The security guards were already there to pull them apart, and within seconds, they’d marched the offender down the hall and the room quieted as everyone went back to eating.

A couple of guys gave him weird looks as they walked past to dump their own trays. Neil didn’t say anything, just gave a little shrug and looked at the ground. He was trying to fade into anonymity because that’s all he’d ever known. It rubbed him in all the wrong ways that he fell into it so easily, but he had no idea how to fix it.

He didn’t want friends.

He didn’t need friends.

But the absence of his mother was eating a hole through his chest and even though he was surrounded on all sides by hundreds of people, he was so lonely his heart ached.

***

Dinner finished with an ear-shattering bell that buzzed far longer than necessary. Neil watched some kids line up to be escorted down one of the halls, some others line up at a second, and still others at a third. He saw Andrew out of the corner of his eye, and headed that direction, head down. They trudged back up the steps and down the hall, and before he knew it, the door was locking behind him again.

Andrew jumped back up on the top bunk and started to read. Neil looked helplessly around for a second before his eyes settled on a piece of paper that had been set on his dresser.

On it was a printed schedule with his name at the top, noting the times that he was expected to be in class, and the time he was expected to be in counseling sessions with a therapist named Betsy Dobson.

Those sessions started tomorrow.

He scowled at that thought, but there was nothing he could do about it, so it was useless to worry.

He stared at the paper for a minute trying to memorize the schedule, and finally folded it and tucked it in the top drawer of the dresser.

“Schedule is on the wall outside our door,” Andrew drawled in a bored voice. “You are not going to miss anything because they will escort you to anything you might want to miss. So don’t get all worried.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Neil sighed, then looked back down at the worn linoleum. He had to pee, but with nothing but a divider separating the toilet from the bed, he wasn’t planning on doing that at any time while Andrew was conscious. He was too nervous to sleep, he had no books like Andrew did, and it was only 5:15PM.

He started walking back and forth in an effort to move, unconsciously measuring footsteps. 7 from his dresser to the corner. 5 from the corner to the other corner by the toilet. 5 back, 7 back.

Trying to measure his breathing with each step, Neil walked, and walked, and walked, until Andrew finally swung down off the bed just as Neil reached the toilet side of the room for the upteenth time.

“Stop.”

Neil shuddered to a halt at the command, but his feet were live wires, prickling with desperate energy to move. “Is there something else?” Neil asked, frustrated that he was speaking at all but unable to focus long enough for animosity. “Is there something else to do?”

“In the grand scheme of life in juvenile detention, or this evening?” Andrew asked wryly. “In about fifteen minutes we all get to go take a shower. It is great fun. I promise you will enjoy yourself. Otherwise...” he motioned around their room. “Get used to your bed.”

Neil completely blanched. He’d managed to avoid thinking about the shower situation because he assumed it was something that would happen tomorrow, and if it was happening tomorrow, then there was nothing he could do about it tonight, and so it was pointless to worry.

Now?

He swallowed hard and tried to look anywhere but Andrew’s eyes. His sweatpants had no pockets and so he had no way to hide the way his hands tightened into fists at his sides.

“Relax, Rabbit. There are stall doors. No one has to see your ouchies.”

Neil was so close to punching him in the fucking face, but the relief at hearing the showers weren’t communal was so visceral he almost sunk to his knees. “I don’t care,” he said petulantly.

“Well _don’t care_ somewhere else. I have to piss.”

Jaw clenching so tight he could barely breathe, Neil forced himself back over to the bottom bunk and stared intensely at the other wall.

The buzzer sounded fifteen minutes later and Andrew and Neil made their way back into the hall with a clean change of clothes while a guard escort with eyes glazed over watched.

There wasn’t the pervasive chaos of the dinner crowd–there were only four rooms that had opened.Neil found himself following another six boys all the way down to the other end of the hall.

Neil hated him a little for it, but Andrew was right. The shower stalls didn’t lock, but they were all enclosed.

Neil wanted to sink down on his knees and cry in relief. Instead, he took a towel from the cart by the door, hurried into one of the open stalls, and took what might have been the fastest shower of his life. He crammed himself into the new sweatpants and shirt so fast they stuck to his wet body.

The other boys took longer, but not by much. All the water cut off five minutes in, and another buzzer sounded–apparently signalling the end of shower time. Neil stood to the side while everyone else sans Andrew came out of their stalls. They taunted and teased and took their sweet time getting dressed.

The only other one who didn’t say a word was Andrew, who also dressed within the privacy of his own stall, and appeared only a moment before the door opened and they were escorted back down the hall.

By the time the door closed them into the room again, the clock only read 5:46.

“What now?” Neil asked.

Andrew just grunted and hoisted himself back up on the bunk, pulling his book out to read again.

 _Sleep_ , his Mom’s voice whispered in his ear. _When there is no threat, you sleep. You rest. You save your strength for the moment you need to run again._

Neil wasn’t banking on Andrew being no threat, but he also wasn’t going to be able to spend 18 months avoiding sleep, so he figured it was as good advice as any.

He pulled the blanket over his head in an attempt to drown out the glaring fluorescent glow, and tried to time each breath in and out with three second ticks from the clock.

***

_He can’t breathe._

_He’s running, and his vision is going black, and his shoulder is nothing but a nexus of pure fiery agony, and he can’t breathe._

_Someone’s behind him, he knows this, but he’s slowing too much and when he looks down, there are dark red droplets of blood staining the pavement. He thinks he’s crying, but boys don’t cry, he can’t be weak, that’s **exactly** the way to get killed, but he thinks he’s crying anyway because he can’t breathe–_

_Neil blinks._

_His mom is forcing the lip of a bottle of whiskey to his mouth and Neil gulps as she tips it up, swallowing something that burns the lining of his esophagus. She pulls it back and he’s trying his hardest not to puke it all back up because the pain in his shoulder is making his stomach crawl right up his throat._

_She slaps him and he blinks again, realizing that she’s asked him to hold a hand against the wound._

_He’s not listening, and not listening is worse than crying._

_Neil bites straight through his lip when she digs the bullet out, and even though he knows he’s not allowed to make a sound, he can’t help the low, horrible whimper that strangles him._

_She slaps him again._

_Neil blinks._

_There’s a heavy vest on him now, and his shoulder is bandaged, but everytime he moves he can feel wet heat soak into his shirt. Moving hurts. Walking hurts. Running hurts. Crawling into the car and letting his mom drive them away while he tucks his head down between his knees and mouths a silent scream into the round of his knee hurts._

_She’s screaming at him, and he’s breathing now, but all he can smell is gasoline, smoke, and burning flesh._

_**I want to wake up** , he pleads. **Please, I want to wake up, please, please, please–**_

“Please,” Neil gasped, eyes flying open.

There was a heavy weight on top of him, he couldn’t move, and as he drew in another ragged breath, he realized that it was Andrew–it was Andrew sitting on top of him, knees pressed hard enough to keep Neil’s arms pinned at his sides.

“Fuck,” Neil choked out, struggling to break free. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck–”

“Easy there, rabbit,” Andrew whispered as he bent over and pressed the palm of his hand against Neil’s mouth.

The nightmare was still too close to taste–Neil’s mind was back to his mother’s hand against his mouth quick enough that he stilled completely–fragmented memory convincing him that he needed to be quiet.

“So obedient,” Andrew drawled

“Fuck you,” Neil sputtered against Andrew’s hand. _The only way out is through_ , he thought bitterly, and so he forced himself to keep still.

Andrew didn’t move. The room was black–there was no window so there was no light–only the bright red EXIT that shone above the door. Neil had no idea what time it was, and that was only adding to his confusion, but he struggled to reign in his fear and relax.

“Ready to listen?” Andrew finally asked.

“Fuck you,” Neil muttered.

Andrew seemed to take this as assent, and withdrew his hand.

Neil sucked in a long breath, then let it out as slow as he could, letting his eyes slowly adjust to Andrew’s features in the dark.

“I want to know what you are running from.”

“And I want you to get the fuck off of me.”

“Not moving.”

Neil clenched his teeth together and refused to say another word.

“I hate you,” Andrew said. It was without any venom at all–just statement of pure, clear fact.

Neil hated him too, but he stayed silent.

“Here is how this arrangement will work,” Andrew said. “You give me all your dirty little secrets. And I will protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“You will.”

“I. Don’t. Need. Protecting.” Neil spat out each word with as much loathing as he could.

“Fine. I have something else you might be interested in.”

“You have nothing.”

“I can get you on the Exy court.”

Neil swallowed hard. He couldn’t. Andrew couldn’t, there was no way he had that kind of pull with the guards. It didn’t matter anyway. Neil hadn’t played in years, he wasn’t supposed to play ever again, but…

“How?” he heard himself whisper, unable to contain the flicker of hope that escaped on his tongue.

Andrew smiled. “So you _do_ want something.”

The flicker died. “You can’t,” Neil growled. “No deal.”

There was silence for a long moment, then Andrew shrugged, crawled off of Neil, and climbed up to the top bunk. “Your loss,” he called down, sounding perfectly cheerful about it. “Sleep tight, rabbit.”

Neil didn’t close his eyes the rest of the night, even when he heard Andrew’s breathing even into sleep over an hour later.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, if it weren't already obvious that I don't know how juvie works, despite my research on the subject, I'll throw this blanket statement here:
> 
> I DON'T KNOW HOW JUVIE WORKS!
> 
> I do know that somewhere on Nora's blog, she mentions Higgins getting Andrew into one of the nice ones. So we are just going to go with that ;) 
> 
> Super appreciate all the comments and kudos- you guys are amazing and it's making me write even faster! <3 <3 <3

Neil was exhausted.

The lights switched on at precisely 6 AM and they were herded back into the cafeteria cattle style at precisely 6:15 AM and by precisely 7:30 AM he was sitting at a desk in a classroom yellowed with age trying to listen to a balding man with a bright purple button-up discuss the merits of an education to a room full of delinquents.

The name _Mr Stann_ was scrawled on the whiteboard behind him, his voice was drier than dust, but there was a major benefit to the two hours Neil would be spending here daily.

Andrew Minyard was not in the class.

Neil was used to a night of no sleep on the run. He was used to a couple.

This, though? He had to crash at some point, but the thought of being vulnerable again–of Andrew being that close to one of his nightmares–was enough to make his breath stutter in his throat.

Maybe he could get a room change.

Maybe he could get himself sent to solitary.

Maybe he could murder Andrew in his sleep.

“Mr. Josten?”

Neil blinked heavily and tried to focus his eyes on the man. “Huh?”

“Delightful,” he said, his voice heavy with irony. “Did you want to introduce yourself to the class?”

Neil looked around at the members of the ‘class’. There wasn’t a single person looking at him–most were either half sleeping on top of their desks, and a few others in the back of the room were tossing wads of paper back and forth. _I could sleep in class_ , he considered for a second, but the thought was more discouraging than not sleeping at all. It wasn’t a good education, but it was a chance at a GED which would be more than a little helpful in helping him disappear after he was released assuming no one caught up to him first.

Which was a ridiculous assumption.

They were _going_ to catch up to him.

Mr. Stann was still staring at him, so Neil gave a little shake of his head no and let him move on.

When the two hours was up, the annoying bell rang again, and Neil found himself being ushered down to the rec room.

There were already kids there–some filling the seats in front of the television, some playing foosball in the middle of the room. It was just as loud as it had been yesterday, and Neil’s headache only grew. He was in the process of scoping out an out of the way corner to hole up in and watch when a hand slammed down on his shoulder.

“How was class?” Andrew sneered.

A couple of kids from the chairs turned around and glared at them, but then shrunk back as soon as they saw Andrew.

“Peachy.” Neil tried to slip out from Andrew’s grip, but Andrew held tight, keeping him far too close for comfort. Neil was having trouble breathing again, and he swallowed hard and clenched his teeth tight together, refusing to let Andrew see his panic. “Too cool for school?” he bit out.

Andrew just smiled. “I have class in the afternoon. Special class. For those of us with exceptional athletic potential.” He scrubbed his hand through Neil’s hair and grinned way too wide.

Exy then. Neil had spent the night wondering when they practiced–partly because he figured he could use the time Andrew was gone to sleep. Mostly though, it was because he ached to play again.

It had been too many years, he was never supposed to go near a court again, he’d be even worse now than what he’d started as, but without Exy?

Andrew was right. He was nothing but a scared rabbit who bolted at the barest hint of noise. Exy gave him life. Exy burned brighter in his brain than anything else and for that kind of time away from the mess that was Nathaniel Wesninski, he’d do anything.

Andrew must have picked up on the longing in his face, because he started laughing and pulled Neil in even closer.

Neil just scowled.

“Come on, junkie,” Andrew mocked as he led Neil over to the chairs where two kids stood up quick and moved out of his reach. “You’ll be in heaven here.”

It wasn’t until Andrew pushed him down in the chair that Neil realized that an Exy match was playing on the television.

Neil hadn’t been able to watch anything on the run, but he picked up on rankings, statistics, players, every bit of information he could get his hands on when his mom wasn’t watching. This was an old game–EA versus USC championship match from a couple of years ago.

Riko Moriyama and Kevin Day’s team.

Riko was on the court. Kevin wasn't because he wasn't old enough to play college ball yet, but rumor had it, Court was already snooping around. Neil had been watching them both since he was a kid, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he’d been desperate to _be_ them for just as long.

He tried to stand up, but Andrew’s hand tightened on his thigh.

“Going somewhere? You look tired. Do you need a nap?”

“Fuck you.”

“I will know your secrets,” Andrew muttered, leaning close enough that Neil could feel his breath against his face. “Your choice on how this goes.”

On the television, the Ravens scored the third of what would be six goals. Neil hated himself for knowing that information. He hated himself even more for how much he wanted to keep watching.

“Fuck you,” he said again, quieter this time.

Andrew took his hand off of Neil’s knee, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and sunk down low enough in his chair that his head hit the back of the seat. His eyes closed.

Neil considered sucker punching him.

A whistle blew on the screen, and a ref threw a red card to a Raven backliner.

Neil kept watching.

***

He had therapy at 2.

Neil was already pissed off that he had to go at all, but it turned out that Andrew’s ‘school’ was from 1-3PM and so not only was he being forced into an office with someone who wanted to extract every secret out of him, he was being kept from potential sleeping time.

His hands were clammy, his bottom lip was chewed raw, and when Dr. Dobson ushered him into the office that was no bigger than a closet, he refused to look her in the eyes.

“Hello, Neil,” she said, all sweet, and nice, and exactly like therapists were supposed to sound.

“Hi.” There was an olive green plastic chair in front of her desk that looked like the kind of chairs he’d had in elementary school. She motioned towards it and he sat, still trying to keep his eyes anywhere but her face.

There was a small filing cabinet behind her, and on top of that was a coffee pot and a container filled with tea and cocoa packets. Her degrees were framed and hung on the wall, along with one of those ridiculous inspirational cat posters, and a string of bright white christmas lights.

There was a cactus on her desk, two tiny glass swans next to that, her computer, and a coffee mug that read _49% Therapist 51%_ Badass set next to it.

He didn’t like her.

“I’m Betsy,” she said. “It looks like we are going to be working together for a little while!”

She said this like they were coworkers–not juvenile delinquent and woman who wanted to pick apart his brain.

Neil started to scowl.

“So I’ve already been given your file, I’m sure you realized that, but if you don’t mind, I’d love to hear a little about your life?”

“I do mind.”

She just smiled at him, pushed her pink-plastic framed glasses up her nose, and gestured towards the coffee pot. “Would you like something to drink? I meant to ask that as soon as you came in!”

“No.”

“Well, if you change your mind, just speak up. Any time, Neil.” Her smile grew.

He knew she expected him to speak, but he wasn’t going to give in that easily. He pursed his lips and stared at the wall.

It didn’t seem to phase her one bit.

She talked about herself, and her two cats, and moving from Chicago to California, and how nice the weather had been, and how she’d been considering trying to surf, and how she really liked being in the woods rather than the beach, and how she didn’t enjoy sports but there was an Exy game coming up here at Oakland and she was looking forward to cheering on the boys.

Neil tried his best to tune her out, but there wasn’t even a clock in the room to know how far along they’d gotten, and eventually he just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Are you Andrew’s therapist too?”

She stopped talking immediately and leaned back in her chair. “That’s right!” She reached for her mug and took a deep sip. “You are roommates with Andrew, right? How are you two getting along?”

She didn’t answer his question, so he wasn’t planning on answering hers. “Swimmingly.”

“Well, I’m very much looking forward to seeing him play next week.”

She paused, he didn’t say anything else, and just like that, she was back on her Exy chatter, which moved to something about windchimes, which moved to the benefits of chocolate on the circulatory system.

Neil hated her, but he also found himself feeling more than a little grateful that she wasn’t forcing him to speak.

The hour ended, he shot out of the office like a loose cannon, and headed straight for his room where he promptly threw himself into bed and closed his eyes for ten minutes before a buzzer went off again and the door unlocked.

Apparently afternoon free time included a choice between the rec room and the outdoors. There was a clear winner here, and Neil quickly found himself on a fenced in yard that boasted a whole bunch of wilted brown grass and a perfect view of the parking lot outside the barbed wire.

It didn’t matter.

He was outside, breathing fresh air.

Most of the kids seemed to congregate in clumps, but Neil took off running instead. The perimeter of the yard only took him a minute to circle, and he ended up dodging other kids left and right but he didn’t care. He ran, and ran, and ran, and by the time the buzzer sounded again, he was a sweaty, gasping mess.

A couple kids gave him wary glances as they marched back inside, but Neil ignored them all–focusing all his energy on the blinding rush of endorphins that were already fading.

Andrew was already back in their room, and he gave Neil an extremely bored appraisal before swinging down out of the bed. “Run, rabbit run,” he commented.

Neil ignored him and walked over to the sink. He flipped on the faucet and bent his head down, sucking up as much water as he could.

As soon as he came up for air, Andrew tossed something on his bed.

“A little gift,” he said, giving Neil a two-fingered salute and climbing back up to the top bunk.

Neil warily walked over to the bed and picked up a worn and tattered copy of Watership Down.

“Nice,” he muttered.

“Rabbits,” Andrew grinned. “You owe me.”

“I owe you nothing.”

“Looked like you were short on reading material. This is a very dull place. I would hate for you to die of boredom. I did you a favor.”

“I’ll be fine.” Neil threw the book back at Andrew.

Andrew frowned and pushed it to the side. “What are you running from?” He leaned back against the wall, feet hanging from the edge of the bed, and studied Neil.

“A bear.”

“What are you running from?”

“Pirates.”

“What are you running from?”

“A gang of mutated highly-rabid squirrels.”

Andrew’s eyes crinkled in the corners but he did not smile.

“Fine. A truth for a truth then.”

“Why does this matter so much to you?” Neil burst out. He was beyond frustrated, he was exhausted, and the tiny amount of running he’d just done was no longer doing anything to curb the crippling anxiety wracking his body. “We’re stuck in a room. There is no where to go. Why does this _matter_?”

“I have a twin,” Andrew said. “I found out recently. I took his name and everything. No more Andrew Doe." He smiled then, but it looked wrong on his face. "They want me to move in with him after I get out."

Neil gaped. “You...what? Why were you in foster care then?”

“Already gave you a truth. Your turn.”

Neil wanted to scream and punch his fist through the wall. Andrew was still watching him, and it was clear that he wasn’t going to be giving this up.

Neil couldn’t survive without sleep forever. He could make it a few days, but eventually he was going to be right back at Andrew’s mercy. He needed to give Andrew just enough of something to get him off Neil’s back and for some reason…

He’d never told anyone about his life before. He’d never had anyone to tell. It was ridiculous, but they were also stuck here and the odds of Andrew getting released and telling the world Neil’s sob story before his father’s men found him were honestly non-existent.

He wouldn’t have to tell everything.

Neil didn’t have any idea why that suddenly seemed so important, but he found himself speaking before he could stop it.

“My father ran as a gopher for the mob. He was just smart enough to siphon off millions, and just stupid enough to get caught. They executed him and my mom, I stole what I could, and I’ve been running ever since.”

Even though it was the smallest amount of truth woven into a large amount of lie, for just a second Neil thought he might throw up all over the floor. His entire body flushed hot, and he had to fight to keep his eyes on Andrew’s face.

Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “That’s an awfully wild story there, little rabbit. I am hurt. I gave you a piece of me, and you give me nothing but more lies.”

Neil shrugged, but it felt too stiff, too wrong. “I don’t have anything else. That’s it. You already know why they picked me up. I’m still alive right now because they only traced me back to another alias.”

“And your real name?”

Neil crossed his arms in impatience, but Andrew was already holding up a hand.

“Truth for truth. I know.” He studied Neil for a long moment, then huffed a laugh and sank down on his bed.

Neil stood there, trying to quench the terror that was shaking him apart from the inside out. It wasn’t much information. It wouldn’t be enough to do anything.

It wouldn’t, it wouldn’t, it wouldn’t.

His mom would take him apart piece by piece if she ever found out, but she wouldn’t, because she was _dead_.

Neil stepped on his own bed and hauled himself up high enough to snag the book back from Andrew.

Andrew cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

Settling back down on the bed, Neil opened to Chapter 1, tried to breathe slowly over the too-fast thudding of his own heart, and began to read.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments/kudos! They really mean so much to me and keep me going on this.
> 
> A few notes:
> 
> -I've gone back in and fixed some of the glaring continuity errors thus far. When I started this, it was a complete experiment and I didn't really have a plan. This is why I shouldn't post chapter by chapter on longfic... *facepalm* ANYWAY. Andrew is Minyard, not Doe.
> 
> Notes on the Timeline for this AU:
> 
> -Begins in April. Andrew is 17 and will be released into the care of Nicky in 6 months when his sentence ends.  
> -Nathaniel is 15, but Neil is 16 and has a 1.5 year sentence to serve until he turns 18  
> -Kevin has just turned 18 and will start officially playing college ball come August. (I've got Riko playing ball already. I don't think there is an official b-day for him, and I know that he and Kevin are the same age, but for purposes of this fic, I've got him six months older so that he can play a year before Kevin.)
> 
> (Someone check me if the Kevin stuff is wrong here-my brain hurts from trying to work this all out HA! I assume he was playing all along, being scouted by court, but not officially playing as a Raven until he was enrolled as an 18 year old college student?)
> 
> OK! Thanks for reading. <3 <3

That first week in lockup was the longest week that Neil had ever experienced in his life. 

There was nothing to do.

They were sheep, being herded by security guards and youth specialists with barely disguised boredom painted on their faces, moving from one hour, to the next hour, to the next, and next, and next, and nothing ever changed.

Up until now, his life had been a series of increasingly chaotic decisions. There was no room for boredom or stagnancy–there was only _run_.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait, and waiting did nothing but cause his heart to beat it’s way out of his throat while his palms grew sweaty with anxiety.

Andrew seemed to have flipped a switch now that he’d been given a morsel of truth. He stopped pestering Neil entirely, and grew increasingly withdrawn, barely speaking to Neil at all.

That was perfectly fine by Neil. By mid-week, he’d finally hit his breaking point from days spent not sleeping and he passed out on the lower bunk. He jerked awake hours later, hands shaking and body trembling, but Andrew hadn’t come near him. It wasn’t trust, but Neil finally gave in and started sleeping at night, and Andrew didn’t seem to care.

On Wednesday, Dr. Dobson asked him if he’d ever been prescribed anti-anxiety medication.

On Friday, he was diverted to the medical room before breakfast and handed a tiny plastic cup with a white pill inside.

Neil pushed it back behind his molars and the second he was let out of the room, he spit it out.

He spent his mornings pacing, his afternoons running laps in the tiny yard, and his evenings completing his homework in silence while Andrew continued to not say a word.

Then, on Friday afternoon, the schedule changed.

Instead of being herded back to their rooms after lunch, they were herded down a hallway that Neil hadn’t seen. 

“Where are we going?” he asked, poking the boy in front of him.

The kid turned around and gave him an irritated once-over. “Exy,” he finally said. “Friday is exy day.”

Neil’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip. “We get to watch?” he asked. 

“Yeah. Don’t get your hopes up. They suck. It’s fucking boring as hell, but it’s better than being in a cell.” He shrugged, then turned forward again and kept walking.

The stadium wasn’t so much a stadium as it was a jumbled mismatch of decrepit materials all shoved together into some semblance of order. Neil had no idea what the building’s prior use had been on site, but as it was now, they’d fitted plexiglass sheeting around the ‘court’ and there were rickety wooden bleachers surrounding this monstrosity–most barely held together by rusting aluminum. Neil was ushered to the middle of one, and within moments, was uncomfortably surrounded by other boys. He tucked his elbows into his sides and held himself as still as possible, so as not to brush up against anyone else.

The court was still empty, and the chaos was exploding in the stands as voices grew in volume, unchecked by the smaller rooms of the detention facility. A kid in front of Neil had managed to sneak in one of the college ruled notebooks they had in the classrooms upstairs, and he folded paper airplanes with impressive speed, sending them flying towards the court where they bounced away from the glass, their tiny paper tips smashing violently. On the next set of bleachers over, someone started a stomping anthem, and the clattering, hollow sound of feet smashing against wood echoed nauseatingly inside the hangar building.

Someone smacked Neil in the back and his heart almost lept out of his chest before he turned around and glared daggers at a boy who was swinging his feet against the bench.

“Sorry, dude,” the guy said.

He didn’t sound sorry at all, and Neil flipped him off before turning back to the court.

Within moments, another set of doors opened at the far end of the building, and Neil watched the Oakland County Juvenile Detention Facility Exy Team stalk onto the court.

The gear was second rate at best. Most of the sticks were chipped with nets worn so thin it was going to be impressive if they could catch a ball at all, and all the kids wore an eclectic mashup of padding that was absolutely not within regulation standards. 

If Neil had to guess, he’d imagine that the program only existed as a way to let kids work off their anger in a more productive way then how they lashed out on the streets–but it was still a shock to him that they’d allow a group of felons heavy sticks that could easily break bones.

“Finley got kicked off last week,” a kid who looked no older than 13 leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper as if in response to Neil’s thoughts. “Broke Davis’s nose last game.” He pointed towards a boy on the court who was at least a foot taller than Neil and was sporting two glorious yellowing black eyes. 

Neil didn’t particularly want to be involved in a conversation, but he was also desperate for any information that might get him on that team, on that court, running down that ball…

He tensed, body suddenly too hot, heart suddenly racing again.

His mom would kill him.

“He got kicked off for hurting him?” Neil heard himself asking. “Kind of hard to play exy without–”

“Violence, right? Yeah, man. I think it was pretty fucking intentional though, y’know? Like, exy gets violent, that’s kinda the point, just, Finley, y’know, like walked right up to Davis after the game and sucker punched him, and that, my man, _that_ is how you get kicked off the squad, that’s how you get a striker opening…”

He kept talking, and Neil was mentally berating himself for encouraging the conversation in the first place when Andrew walked onto the court. He was wearing way more gear than anyone else, and he lazily sauntered over to the goal where he promptly sat down on the floor and laid his stick across his lap.

“...which is when try-outs are, but I basically already got the spot, I mean, the coach is my youth specialist, man, and we go way back, and–”

“Try-outs?” Neil said, immediately snapping back to attention.

The kid’s nose scrunched up, eyes flashing in irritation. “Right. Try-outs. I said that. Anyway–”

“You try-out for the team? Here?”

“That’s what a try-out is, man, yeah. Don’t matter though ‘cause I–”

“When are they? What’s the position? Can anyone…” Neil tapered off, swallowing hard around the bubble of want in his throat. He wasn’t allowed to play Exy. He wasn’t allowed to want anything, he wasn’t allowed to be anything, he was only allowed to breathe and to run.

Anything else defeated the entire purpose of his existence.

“Yeah, man…”

The kid was watching him now, eyes scrunched in judgement. 

“I mean...you gotta get approval. Therapist and recommendation from your specialist. But it don’t matter because I already got the in, I already played striker back in youth leagues before that foster situation got fucked, they said I got talent, sure as hell a lot more talent than these fuck ups, it’s fuckin’ joke they let some of these assholes play, they…”

Neil tuned him out again as the coach walked out on the court. He tapped players' heads, handed out bright yellow mesh jerseys to a few, threw one over to where Andrew was still pointedly sitting in goal, then walked to the center of the court and pointed at the circle painted in red on the floor.

About ten kids walked off court and sat on the long thin bench just outside the doors. The remaining 12 on the court all settled in starting positions. 

Paper airplane kid sent off a few expertly aimed jets and got a round of high fives when all but one hit the subs.

The coach came off.

Closed the doors.

Held a whistle to his mouth.

And blew.

Kid next to Neil was right–they were awful. The game rapidly progressed into nothing but a brawl, but it was clear that punches were held just shy of doing real damage, and all violence was done under the guise of furthering the game.

The striker on Andrew’s team looked like he’d never held a racket in his life, the two backliners on the opposing team spent as much time trying to be strikers and steal goals as they did remembering their real purpose, and in all, it was barely organized chaos.

Except for Andrew.

He’d stood up once the whistle blew, and from that moment on, he didn’t let a single hit clear goal. The amount of power he put behind his hits left Neil in awe that he didn’t snap the stick straight in half, and while none of the shots on goal were particularly aimed well, he snapped everything straight back to the other end of court while barely moving at all.

It was raw talent unlike anything Neil had seen since Baltimore, and he couldn’t help his thoughts spiraling through every possible scenario.

How long had Andrew been playing?

What teams had he grown up playing on?

Had anyone been scouting him before he’d ended up here–or was this level of talent something that was only going to be buried beneath the weight of a shitty judicial system, and horrible luck?

That sick, desperate want in Neil’s throat was turning to something worse–something vitriolic and foul.

Jealousy.

Andrew had grown up with the option to play ball, he had what Neil wanted, what Neil coveted, what Neil yearned for. 

Neil had grown up with aliases, and bullet wounds, and fear.

Neil swallowed it all down as far as he could and steeled his face to nothingness.

When the game finally ended at 19-0, yellow-team-win, he felt nothing but a sick sense of hopelessness. 

Someone held a hand in his face and Neil looked up to see the kid who’d been yammering staring down at him.

“Game’s over, man. Come on.”

Neil wanted nothing less than to touch someone, but the hand in his face wasn’t going away so he took it, allowing the guy to pull him up. 

“Name’s Connor,” the kid murmured, pulling Neil just a little too close. “And that striker spot is _mine_.” Then he shoved Neil hard enough that Neil stumbled down off the bleachers.

No one was watching them, so no one saw the way Connor slashed a finger across his throat, eyebrows wagging in promise, before turning away and disappearing into the crowd of boys.

“Fuck off,” Neil muttered, then allowed himself to be herded back into a line, back into the building, back down the hall, and back into the tiny little room that he shared with an asshole who could guard a goal better than any college player Neil had seen.

***

Neil was sitting cross legged in bed, bullshitting his way through an essay on a book he’d already read back in sixth grade when Andrew was let back in the room.

Andrew didn’t look at him, just hauled himself up to the top bunk and threw himself down on the bed.

Neil waited a long while before finally wriggling out from beneath his scratchy woolen blanket. Andrew was facing the wall, grey standard issue sweats standing out vividly against the white painted cinder block. Neil balled up a piece of paper and threw it at Andrew’s head.

Andrew didn’t even flinch.

“Nice game,” Neil drawled.

Nothing.

“You’ve been holding out on me you know. You never said you were an Exy star.” He’d meant it sarcastically, but the words fell flat, too much emotion still burning hot in his blood.

Andrew still didn’t say anything, and Neil could feel unbridled rage beginning to build up, threatening to tear him apart from the inside out. He tore another piece of paper and balled it up, throwing it as hard as he could.

It bounced off of the back of Andrew’s neck.

He did it again, and again, and still Andrew said nothing, so Neil jumped on the lower bunk and heaved himself up to shove Andrew as hard as he could.

Andrew reacted like a canon, flinging himself around and shoving Neil so hard that Neil stumbled down to the floor. Then Andrew was off the bunk, hand round Neil’s neck, throwing him against the door of their room and pinning him there.

His eyes were raging fire, and his jaw was clenched so tightly Neil could see the veins of his neck popping out against his pale skin.

“What,” Neil gasped, grabbing at Andrew’s hand around his throat and trying to pry it off. “Can’t take a compliment?” He couldn’t get in a full breath of air but he also couldn’t stop laughing, only maybe he was crying, only maybe he was crazy, only maybe he was dying.

“Don’t you _ever_ fucking touch me again,” Andrew snarled, then he let go suddenly, hauled his fist back, and punched Neil right in the left eye.

Pain exploded in Neil’s face and he doubled over, hands pressed against his eye, trying to stifle the high-pitched keening he could hear coming from his own mouth.

It didn’t sound like him.

It sounded weak, and despairing, and lost, and horrible.

“ _Ever_ again,” Andrew said. 

Everything was pain. Neil was trying to blink the tears away, but everything was still blurry, and he could taste blood in his mouth where he’d bitten through his cheek. He sank down to his knees, but Andrew was still in front of him, Andrew was suddenly down at his level, Andrew was threading fingers through Neil’s hair and yanking his head back so far he could barely breathe.

“You don’t know me,” Andrew hissed. “You don’t know anything. You’ve been here a week and you clearly have delusions of fucking grandeur. You’re here, living in _my_ room, sleeping under _my_ bed, shitting in _my_ toilet. You play by my rules. You don’t touch me. You don’t speak to me unless I’ve specifically asked your opinion. You sure as shit don’t touch my stuff _ever again_. Capiche?”

“Fuck you,” Neil groaned, reaching up and grabbing Andrew’s wrist.

Andrew punched him again, this time in the nose.

Neil felt it snap. Blood burst on the back of his tongue, and an agonizing pain exploded across his face as everything started to swell.

“ _You. Don’t. Touch. Me._ ” Andrew ground out, words swollen with venom. 

Neil wanted to fight.

He wanted to jump on top of Andrew and pummel him into the ground until his fists were broken and bloody. He wanted to scream, and kick, and hit, and hurt.

Instead, instinct took over, and he let go of Andrew’s wrist and curled in on himself.

_“Be small,” his mother says. “Don’t make a sound. They won’t see you, they won’t notice you, they’ll leave. We are going to be alright. Just be small.”_

There was a horrible wheezing sound coming from his nose, and he tried to stop it as quickly as he could because if they heard him then he was dead, and if he was dead, then his mother was dead, and if his mother was dead…

Neil swallowed and he could taste ash.

He could smell gasoline.

His hands shook as they fumbled with the seatbelt, and he could hear the snap of the metal.

Somewhere there were voices, and Neil forced himself back to the present, back to the jail room, back to where the door was open and Andrew was being cuffed by the security guard with the brown mustache who stood in their hallway at night.

“Easy,” Andrew was saying. “I am going.”

He let the guard touch him without issue, but there was still violence crackling in his eyes as he glared at Neil.

The walkie talkie at the guard’s waist crackled to life, and he flipped it on. “Medic in room 280 C block. Escorting one Andrew Minyard to solitary.”

Neil blinked fuzziness out of his eyes and pushed himself back up again, leaning against the wall for support. “What,” he managed to huff out. He’d lost time, he didn’t remember the door opening or the guard going in or anything but Andrew’s fist in his face and the memory of his mother. “What’s–”

“Guess no more Exy star, for you,” Andrew said with a cheerful grin as the guard led him out of the room. “They kick kids off the team for violence, you know. Better luck next time, roomie.”

Another guard stepped and helped Neil up, pulling him towards the door. “Come on kid,” he said. “Doctor’s waiting.”

Neil allowed himself to be led out from the cell, blood still dripping down his face, dizziness swallowing him whole, lifeless, empty stare of Andrew Minyard eating its way through his entire being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is Andrew suddenly so angry and lashing out?  
> Maybe...you'll find out next chapter...when we see some of his POV ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * ****Warnings in this chapter for self-harm | self-injury*** Tags have been updated to reflect this!**
> 
> Woohoo, Andrew chapter! Really hope you guys enjoy, and that this gives a little insight into his own mental state/fragility right now :)
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are the absolute greatest motivator in the universe. Thanks SO much to all of you who have been so kind!
> 
> -Coop

The week was going to hell.

Andrew scowled, then threw himself back into pushups, kicking his feet up onto the bed for this round. _Juvie is_ , he thought on the up, _shit,_ he thought on the down. _Exy is_ , up, _shit_ , down, _Family is_ , up, _shit_ , down, _Roommate is_ , up, _shit,_ down. Over and over he chanted this in his head, a violent mantra that only served to make him even more furious.

He was dying to hit someone.

To hurt someone.

To lash out and–

His arms gave out, and Andrew rolled over on his back, gasping for breath as sweat dripped down the sides of his face.

The ceiling above him was concrete grey–a rusting air vent cover the only landmark to fixate on. The vent wasn’t doing much of anything–Andrew wasn’t even sure the AC worked in this part of the facility. The heat was stifling and oppressive, leeching out every last bit of energy he had, but also making it impossible to sleep.

He could take off the sweatshirt but...

 _Solitary is shit,_ he thought with a sharp grin.

It wasn’t though. Solitary was an escape that he was only able to use every so often without getting his little prison stint extended, but it was an escape that he desperately relied upon during weeks like these that went…

to hell.

Andrew took a deep breath, grimaced at the burn in his arms, then rolled back over to his stomach and pushed himself up again.

_Juvie is shit._

_Exy is shit._

_Family is shit._

_Roommate is shit._

On the second day, he gave in, rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, and started picking at the scabs on his forearms.

Most had completely healed over and scarred–remnants of a young Andrew who didn’t know any better. These newer marks weren’t cries for help so much as punishment for living. When you got locked up, you got a lot of time to think, and when you got a lot of time to think, you got a lot of time to reflect on every shard of memory that sliced up your insides, and when you were Andrew Minyard, there were a lot of fucking shards that cut deeper with every breath he took.

The Juvie Exy team spent the first twenty minutes of every practice sitting and listening to their ‘coach’, and the metal stadium benches had a lot of sharp corners. It had become a bit of a game to Andrew. How fast can you snag skin against metal without anyone seeing? How deep can you cut before you bleed through your clothes?

He niggled a fingernail under one of the fresher scabs and slowly worked it off, watching tiny beads of blood bubble up.

On the third day, the buzzer above his head went off because this was a nice facility. This was the kind of facility that didn’t keep kids in solitary. This was the kind of facility that kids could come out of, changed for the better.

Andrew didn’t believe in change.

The door opened. “How perfectly lovely to see you, Brian,” Andrew chirped from the bed.

His youth specialist sighed, then motioned Andrew out of the cell with the clipboard in his hand.

“Missed your visitation on Saturday,” Brian sighed, reading from the clipboard as they walked. “Roughin’ up your roommate that important to you?”

Andrew didn’t say anything.

The pen tapped at the clipboard as they rounded the corner. “Straight to therapy,” Brian announced, leading them up the staircase. “You’ve got additional group now on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And your behavior file isn’t looking great. You get one more citation and you’re looking at additional time. Again.”

Inside, Andrew raged. Outside, he was cool, calm, and silent. A couple of weeks after he'd first gotten here, he’d had a year added on to his time for fighting and violence. Ever since the letter from Luther outlining all the reasons he needed to move there instead of here, ever since Aaron, ever since everything went to shit again because why wouldn’t it go to shit, he’d been toeing the line as close as possible so as not to run up his time.

He _needed_ to be out in six months.

For Aaron.

“You even listening to me?” Brian asked. “I’m trying to help–”

“I’m listening,” Andrew muttered.

“Okay. You’ve got so much potential, Andrew. I hate to see you throw it away like this with petty violence. You’re smart. You’re talented–”

“Oh, look, we’re here,” Andrew announced as they walked up to the detention-glazed glass door. Andrew could see Betsy sitting inside at her tiny little desk, smiling away despite the closet sized workspace with no privacy at all. “Can I go to therapy now?” he asked. “You know, the place where an actual therapist blows smoke up my ass instead of an overpaid rent a cop? I hope the taxpayers know what a fantastic job you, personally, are doing to further today’s youth. Truly stellar work. Appreciated.”

Brian’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything, just rapped at the door. There was another buzz and it opened, allowing Andrew to slip inside.

“Hello, Andrew!” Betsy said, motioning for him to sit down.

He had to give it to her. Despite the shittiest of shit jobs spent picking apart the brains of deranged teenage scum, she always managed to sound cheerful.

“Bee,” he muttered in return. “Buzz, buzz, buzz.” He threw himself into the tiny chair and kicked his legs up on her desk, unable to stifle a grin when the pile of paperwork sitting at the edge was upended straight into the small wastebasket that sat desk adjacent.

She didn’t miss a beat, just bent over and gathered everything up, then tucked it all on the shelf behind her. “I missed seeing your game on Friday,” she said. “I hear you played wonderfully.”

“So they say.”

“Are you happy about how it went?”

“It’s Exy. I don’t give a fuck how it went.”

“Understandable. I know it’s the only option here, unfortunately, though we’re lucky to have the program.”

She didn’t say _you’re lucky,_ she said _we’re lucky_ and with Betsy, it was obvious that she included herself in that statement. It was impossible to hate her, so in the two years that Andrew had been here, he’d allowed himself to open up to her ever so slightly and then turned around and channeled all that hate back on himself.

“If you did have another option,” she said, leaning over and flicking on the coffee pot, “what would you like to be playing?”

“You’ve asked me that before,” Andrew muttered. He watched liquid start dripping down into the pot, hissing a little as it hit the heat. She never put coffee beans in–just used the pot to heat water for tea or hot chocolate.

“I know,” she smiled. “Sometimes answers change.”

“Mine don’t.”

Her smile didn’t falter. “I think sometimes we fall into a circular pattern of reasoning that tugs so tightly it can be impossible to see any way out. It only takes a butterfly to cause the storm that might break the cycle, though.”

“Just need to find my butterfly,” he deadpanned. “Water’s ready.”

“Hot chocolate?” she asked, even though she knew the answer, even though he’d interrupted her. She poured him a paper cup full, then emptied the powder in, stirring it with a plastic spoon, before finally handing it to him. Even in therapy, they weren’t allowed independence.

“You’re roommate is doing well,” Betsy said casually.

Andrew held the cup between two hands and forced his eyes to the swirling clump of chocolate that hadn’t dissolved yet.

“Broken nose as I’m sure you gathered–”

Andrew could feel the crunch of bone against his knuckles and he fought to keep his jaw from tensing.

“–but he’s just fine. Do you want to talk about what happened?”

He closed his eyes. “Nope.”

“Alright. I know that you missed visitation. Your mom was supposed to come this week–”

“She’s not my mom.” He didn’t not want to talk about solitary, he did not want to talk about Exy, he did not want to talk about Neil fucking Josten who put his hands all over Andrew’s shit, and he absolutely did not want to talk about Cass.

“Alright,” Betsy said.

She didn’t say anything else, just watched him from behind ridiculous pink glasses.

Andrew very purposely took a large sip of too-hot cocoa. He had a sudden urge to tug on his sweatshirt sleeves even though he knew they were pulled down, but he also knew that she’d read into that, just like she was reading into the agitation that he was having trouble hiding, just like she was reading into his refusal to speak.

“I know it’s hard getting used to living with someone new,” she finally said, circling back to Neil.

As much as Andrew was relieved, he hated how good she was at this. He found himself nodding along, just to get off the subject of Cass.

“Your old roommate was released, right?” she asked. “It must have been nice to have the room to yourself for a bit.”

“Only five days,” Andrew grumbled.

“Still. Five days of quiet. And then everything became chaos and you were thrust into a living situation with someone you know nothing about.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s okay if it’s not. Change isn’t easy for anyone, but it certainly isn’t easy when you are already living in close quarters with no privacy at all. Are you two speaking much?”

“He only wants to talk about Exy.”

That wasn’t true. Andrew hadn’t given Neil much of a chance to speak about anything else, though he was 99% certain that even given the opportunity, Neil wasn’t going to be the type to open up. Which suited Andrew just fine.

Just fine.

“Just fine,” he heard himself mumbling, then grabbed the cup of cocoa to hide his irritation at speaking unintentionally.

Betsy didn’t comment on it, but Andrew knew her well enough to know that she noticed.

“He’s got way more issues than I do, so I hope you’re having fun trying to crack his code,” Andrew muttered.

“Everyone is different,” she agreed. “Do you think that maybe you both have some common ground?”

Andrew scowled. “I’m not looking for a friend.”

“I didn’t say that you were.”

“He’s hiding shit. And he’s obnoxious. And it doesn’t matter because I’m leaving in six months.”

“Six months is a long time to have to live with someone you find obnoxious.”

Andrew swallowed the rest of his cocoa, tossed the empty cup at the trashcan, then crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m done.”

“We still have twenty minutes, Andrew.”

“Great. I’m tired. All that solitary really takes it out of a guy.” He flashed her a grin, then kicked his legs back down and leaned forward onto her desk, burying his head in his arms.

Because Betsy was Betsy, she didn’t say anything about it.

It didn’t make him feel any better. But he appreciated the gesture.

***

Their room was empty when Brian finally led him back. Neil’s schedule should have put him in here, but Brian waved off, saying that he’d earned library privileges over the weekend.

 _Pity privileges_ , Andrew wanted to laugh. There was one good thing about getting the shit kicked out of you here–the adults tended to feel bad and give you crap.

Brian waved, then the door closed behind him. There was a faint echo of yelling from down in the rec room where one of the blocks was getting their time. The toilet was running in the corner, so Andrew stepped over and jiggled the handle, waiting for the water to stop.

He walked over to the dresser and stood in front of it for a long time, listening to the second hand on the clock _tick, tick, tick, tick, tick_.

Andrew’s eyes flicked up to the mirror for only a second before looking back down again. He didn’t want to stare at the boy there–that boy was sad, that boy was lonely, and that boy had nothing.

He clenched his hands into fists, feeling the bite of his nails against skin. Then he opened the top drawer and pulled out the stack of letters, slipping the top one–the newest addition that had arrived on Wednesday–from the pile.

Climbing up to his bed, he set the remaining stack next to him and unfolded the paper.

**_Dear Andrew,_ **

**_I was so happy to get your letter last month! Thank you for writing. I worry so much about you there, but I’ve spoken with your case worker and I know that everything is going well._ **

**_I’ve also been told that there will be an Exy game that is open to parents! I’m so excited that I’ll be able to see you play. It’s a month from today, so get ready. I know you don’t really have team colors there, but I’m going to do my best to embarrass you anyway :)_ **

**_Made chocolate chip cookies this morning but it’s not the same without you there. I hope you’re ready for a giant bake-a-thon when you come home again. I’ve been practicing on bread–not as sweet, but I promise you’ll still like it._ **

**_We miss you, Andrew. We all do. I hope you know how much you mean to all of us, and how much we want you back home._ **

**_Speaking of which._ **

**_I’m not sure when you’ll get this letter, so you might have already seen us! I’ll be coming to visit you during the Saturday visitation in the last week of April, and I’m bringing a surprise! (Okay. It’s not really a surprise. I’m sure you’ve already guessed!) Drake is home for the weekend from basic and he wanted to tag along. He’s been asking after you–I know he’d just love it if you wrote him a letter as well! I’ll let him give you his new address on Saturday. I can’t wait to see both of my boys in the same place again!_ **

**_Love you so much, Andrew. Please stay safe._ **

**_Love,_ **

**_Mom_ **

He read it again.

And again.

There was no reason to reread–the words had already imprinted themselves on his traitor brain the first time last Wednesday. Still, the looping stroke of Cass’s writing pushed into the page with black ball point pen was something he’d miss, and holding onto the paper was a more tangible thing than memory would ever be.

He took a deep breath in, read it one last time, then tore it up, shredding the paper as small as he possibly could. He did the same for the next letter, and the next, systematically ripping every bit of Cass apart.

It took a couple of trips to carry all the handfuls of shreds over to the toilet, but each time he dumped a handful into the water, he watched as the pieces of her became waterlogged and sunk to the bottom, slowly disintegrating into a foul clog.

He flushed it all away just as the door opened.

“Oh,” Neil said, stepping into the room.

Andrew turned. Both of Neil’s eyes were swollen and painted in a stunning shade of black and blue. The bruising didn’t stop there–it carried all the way to his cheekbones and temples, fading to an awful greenish yellow at the edges.

 _I did that._ The thought carried with it an awful sort of pride. _I can make pain_ , it sang. _I can hurt people too._

Neil walked over the bottom bunk and crawled in–making himself small against the far corner as he drew his legs up. He was carrying a book, and he opened it, eyes going down to the text and not looking at Andrew again.

“I hate you,” Andrew said.

“No shit,” Neil muttered, not looking up.

Anger and grief boiled up, thick, and hot, and awful. Andrew choked it down. He looked down at the toilet. It was still running, just like it had been when he’d walked into the room. He watched the water vibrate for a second, then jiggled the handle so it would stop.

There was nothing else to do, so he crawled up into the top bunk, grabbed his copy of Frankenstein, and forced his eyes on the page.

He couldn’t focus on any words.

He couldn’t do anything but watch the jagged memories behind his eyes playback in real time, over and over and over again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited- things are finally happening!  
> I've learned that writing a story that takes place entirely in a juvenile detention facility does not leave a lot of room for change of location/clothing/or character interactions 😂 So thanks for bearing with me through the monotony of grey sweatshirts and a room with two bunkbeds 😂 😂 😂 
> 
> This chapter has some Andrew art done by the incredible [Salmon](http://twitter.com/sushisalmon95). Seriously- go give her a follow and show her some love, because she's SO TALENTED!
> 
> Thank you again for all the comment support! I'm so happy every time one comes in! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter <3

“How are you feeling?”

“Peachy,” Neil answered, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest as he stared at Dr. Dobson. She had rainbow cat earrings on today that wiggled every time she moved her head, and she was wearing a rainbow sweater that clashed horribly with them.

She was giving him a headache and he’d only been here for two minutes.

“I know that you’ve had a little trouble with your living situation–”

“How could you tell,” Neil snarked back. He fought to keep his hands from clenching into fists, anger and impatience were warring within him. This was a waste of time. Neil had no intention of ever sharing anything specific about his life with her, and she was pissing him off with her nice smile, and her slow movements, and her stupid hot chocolate and tea.

Dobson didn’t seem to notice his irritation, or maybe she was just ignoring it under pretense of therapy. “It looks like it hurts,” she said. “Have they been giving you anything for the pain?”

Neil didn’t answer. It was a correctional facility, and he highly doubted that they were wasting time and money handing out free drugs to kids who already had addictive tendencies. She should already know that. And even if they had given him something more than Tylenol, he wouldn’t have taken it.

Neil could still remember his mom forcing alcohol down his throat to shut him up while she stitched his wounds. He could still remember with a sickening clarity exactly what it felt like to lose control.

Pain was a given. Without his mom here to shut him up, losing control like that could mean death. It was easiest just to block out the hurt and stop thinking.

“Neil,” Dobson pushed. “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”

Neil very pointedly looked towards the figurines, watching as the light bounced off a tiny unicorn and scattered a prism of rainbow on the dull, brown shelf.

She sighed, then turned towards her computer and typed a few sentences. Neil sat, waiting for the _I can’t help you if you don’t let me_ lecture, but it didn’t come. Instead, she kept typing like she’d forgotten he was even there.

There was a small part of him that wanted to scream and be noticed. That small part had been beaten down so far that he was surprised it was even able to still surface. Wincing, he tried to shove it back down again. Tried to be small.

It didn’t work. He was so tired of being nothing.

“I won’t talk about my parents,” Neil said quietly, shifting so that he could sit on his traitorous hands that wanted to throw things and hit things and hurt things.

She looked over at him, fingers pausing on the keyboard. “You don’t have to,” she said.

“You’ll make me. At some point you’ll make me.”

“I’m not planning on ever making you talk about something you don’t want to.”

“Then what’s the fucking point?” Neil sputtered. “Therapy is supposed to fix people. You’re supposed to go all mad scientist in our brains and put the broken parts back together again, right? It won’t hold. Broken things like to stay that way. No one likes change.”

Dobson didn’t smile, but her eyes warmed ever so slightly, and Neil found himself wanting to push her entire computer off of her desk.

“That’s the most you’ve ever said to me, Neil.” She wrapped her hands around her mug and took a sip.

His cheeks flushed. “Whatever,” Neil said, looking back to the figurines.

“I’m not a mad scientist,” Dobson said once she set the mug down again. “And I’m not trying to fix you.”

“Right,” Neil said.

“Trauma is something rooted inside a lot of us. It’s not always something fixable. But it’s something that we can learn to cope with. I only have a short time with each of you during your stay here. My goal isn’t to change you. My goal is to provide comfort, and teach healthier mechanisms to use while coping with your demons.”

“That’s working out great. You might want to try some new _mechanisms_ with Andrew. His current ones suck.”

“I’m sorry that he hurt you.”

“He didn’t...whatever,” Neil muttered with a shrug. A broken nose was hardly the worst injury he’d ever suffered, but he didn’t want to talk about Andrew.

“What are some methods that you’ve found successful in dealing with stress?” Dobson asked.

Neil blinked. The switch back to the mundane was so sudden that his anger dissipated into pure confusion. “I...what?”

“Have you ever had a hobby, or an activity that helped you in times of stress?”

 _Exy_ , Neil wanted to say, but he wasn’t ready to give that piece of himself to her to pick apart and scrutinize. “Running, I guess.”

“I should have known you were a runner,” she said.

The words echoed Andrew’s nasty rabbit jokes, but her voice was filled with warmth and not derision, so Neil tried not to hate her for the comment.

“I’m sure it’s been hard to adjust here. There isn’t a lot of room for movement, and there certainly aren’t a lot of places to run. Have you been running laps in the courtyard?”

She waited expectantly, but Neil was done filling in conversations for her–she’d asked that last question like she knew the answer, and his entire body was prickling with anxiety, waiting for her to use it against him. She’d proven nice thus far, but she was also human, and humans were very good at hurting each other.

 _Very_ good.

“Well, I know that the Exy team has an opening,” Dobson continued. “Do you like Exy?”

Neil clenched his jaw down so tightly his teeth hurt.

She didn’t seem deterred. “If you have any interest, I can make sure to put in a good word for you. Usually that’s something reserved as a reward for good behavior, but I’ve never liked that system. Exercise is good for mental health, and I wish they would give all of you boys better options. For now…” she pursed her lips, eyebrows drawing together in thought. “The stadium is bigger than the courtyard. It would still only be laps, but I might be able to get you the time while the Exy team practices.”

Neil watched her suspiciously. “Why?” he finally asked. He knew the why–she’d use it as leverage to drag every secret out of him later, and when he refused, she’d take it all away and leave him with an even bigger hole inside of himself than he’d started with.

“Because I think that you are having a hard time, and I would like to try and help in any way that I can. Talking is hard right now. I know that you don’t trust me, and I am not trying to force that. But I want to do my best to make sure you have an outlet should you need.”

 _Do not trust anyone_ , his mom always said. _It will get you killed._

Neil swallowed hard. “I’m still not going to talk to you,” he said slowly.

“You don’t have to.” Dobson took off her glasses and began cleaning them on her sweater. “I hope that at some point you might change your mind, but this isn’t a bartering situation.”

The buzzer sounded above them, making Neil jump. The door swung open and Neil stood up, suddenly prickly and anxious.

“You don’t have to,” he blurted out, as the guard motioned for Neil to follow.

Dobson just gave him a kind smile. “Have a wonderful afternoon, Neil.”

Neil couldn’t help but wonder what kind of deals she made with Andrew, and, if they’d worked, what he gave her in exchange.

***

The days lumped together, bland and lifeless. School was an absolute joke. He’d already surpassed the level of work they were given years ago. Neil kept up with the assignments just to make sure he’d graduate, but between the constant busy work, and Mr. Stann’s tendency to drone on in monotony, he was having a harder and harder time staying awake during class.

He moved from there, to lunch, to either therapy with Dobson, or group therapy with a man named Doctor Willard.

Group was its own special kind of hell. Luckily, Neil had been placed in a separate group from Andrew so he didn’t have _that_ particular issue to contend with, but Dr. Willard was a man with bright blue eyes who carried himself with just enough confidence and swagger that Neil found himself cringing away by default. It was incredibly draining to force himself into the room, let alone sit there under the weight of Willard’s stare, feigning enough interest so as not to to be noticed, but still remembering to breathe through the thumping pound of his heartbeat that echoed in his ears.

Then he’d run laps in the courtyard while doing his best not to crash into one of the dozens of other boys milling around.

Then he’d eat dinner.

Then he’d shower as fast as humanly possible, all while avoiding Andrew’s obnoxious, knowing stare as he disappeared behind the stall door.

Then they were back in the cell.

Every night, the click of the door locking was enough to send Neil into a panic spiral that he desperately tried to hide from Andrew. His nightmares were getting worse, and while he hadn’t woken again to Andrew sitting on his legs and holding a hand against his mouth, the force of them were overwhelming, threatening to shake him apart from the inside out. Most mornings, he woke hours before the buzzer sounded, and just stared up into the darkness, breathing in and out and counting as high as he could in every language he knew.

There was another Exy game on Friday, and like last time, the boys were herded into the hangar building like cattle where they watched the Oakland Juvenile Detention Facility Exy Team pathetically throw themselves around the court and pretend to play.

Once again, Andrew was incredible on the court. Neil watched him exclusively–watched every calculated movement he made, filing it away for a future that would never happen–and finally came to an obnoxiously irritating conclusion.

Andrew wasn’t even trying.

It was unbelievably frustrating, and it only served to fuel Neil’s hatred toward him more. He’d been given a chance to play, and he didn’t even care.

The fury was acidic, eating its way through his chest, and Neil tried to bring it up later that night.

Andrew just scowled at him, said “nope,” then buried himself in the covers, back against the wall, and fell asleep.

On Saturday, Dobson made good on her word.

The security guard who led him down to the hangar didn’t say much, and Neil tried to tamp down on the sudden energy flooding his system.

It really happened. She really made it happen.

The stadium seemed larger now that it wasn’t filled with the raucous energy of hundreds of teenage boys. Neil took a deep breath in of metal and stale sweat and almost felt happy. There was no fresh air, but the perimeter of the inside was at least twice as big as the courtyard and there weren’t dozens of others vying for the space. The security guard gave a heavy sigh and leaned against the door, crossing his arms and leaning his head back. “Don’t know why you’re special, but you get 30 minutes every afternoon here. Exy kids’ll be here in five. Go.” Waving his hand in disgust, the guard gave an enormous yawn, then closed his eyes.

Neil went.

His sneakers squeaked against the cement, and the sound of his footfalls echoed in the space, and he couldn’t help the enormity of the grin he wore.

Freedom.

For the first time in two weeks, he felt like he could breathe again. He didn’t know how Dobson had managed it, but he couldn’t help but feel grateful to her for every single second he had.

He’d made it around the building five times when the door clanged open again and a group of kids piled in, yelling obscenities and shoving at each other in a way that was almost violent, but that no one tried to stop.

Neil grimaced, but kept going, refusing to let the noise bother him. He kept his eyes on the ground, circling and circling even as the coach yelled at everyone to sit down, shut up, and listen. His voice carried, walking them through rules, discussing possible plays, and eventually chatting about the need for a new striker

It wasn’t hard to tune him out, so Neil did, focusing instead on the sweat dripping into his eyes, and the familiar and wonderful burn of muscles finally getting to work.

At twenty-three laps around, everyone stood up and headed towards the back of the building where they began dragging out piles of equipment from a closet.

Everyone but one.

Andrew sat at the top of the metal bleachers, eyes on the court and mouth etched in a scowl. He was a statue of tension, every line in his body pulled taut, and when he finally looked up and saw Neil watching him, his eyes narrowed to slits.

Neil looked over to the door, but the security guard had disappeared, so he slowed down to a jog, coming to a complete stop by the time he reached the bleachers.

“Lucky, lucky, rabbit,” Andrew sing-songed.

It was the most he’d said to Neil in a week.

Neil ignored the taunt and pointedly looked towards where the rest of the team was entering the court. “You in time-out?” he mocked.

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

Neil waited, but Andrew didn’t say anything else, just glared at him with his dagger-like hazel eyes.

“What a conversationalist. If you’ve got nothing else, I’ll just–”

“I believe,” Andrew interrupted, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and chin cupped in his palm, “that _you_ were the one who stopped here.”

Neil rolled his eyes but didn’t move.

“Library privileges, stadium privileges, what’s next, rabbit? Exy? Single room? Complete exoneration? Dream big and all.”

“Figured Exy was a given. I’ve got a particularly obnoxious roommate, see, who promised me that he could get me on the court.”

Andrew’s glare grew. “One time offer,” he growled. “And you didn’t bite.”

“Hardly an offer if you’ve got no power to make it happen.”

“I could have made it happen.”

“Sure.”

“Come closer, rabbit, your nose looks a little crooked. Maybe if I break it again they can set it straight this time around.”

“So aggressive,” Neil said with a shake of his head, but couldn’t help himself from taking a small step back. Andrew was coiled tighter than a spring, he was moments away from violence, and Neil had been on the other side of that anger two times too many.

“I can make your life hell, you know,” Andrew growled.

“Only if you want to spend the rest of your stint here in solitary.”

“I like solitary. Fewer idiots with a death wish.”

“Minyard!”

Neil looked over to the coach who stood in the center of the court, hands on his hips, irritated scowl painted on his face.

Andrew didn’t move an inch.

“How’d you get so good at Exy?” Neil asked. The question burst from his lips unexpectedly, and he grit his teeth in irritation.

Andrew’s eyes widened in surprise for only a second, then narrowed again. “Questions, questions.”

“Nevermind.”

“Curiosity is better suited to cats.” Andrew considered him for a long moment, then stood, taking the bleacher steps in long strides until he stood directly in front of Neil.

“I’ll answer,” Andrew said, a sly grin curling on his lips. “But you will owe me.”

Even though Neil had a few inches on him, Andrew was terrifying up close. A truth for a truth, then. Neil had expected it, but his hands still curled into fists at his sides.

“Minyard!” the coach yelled again, irritation plain in his voice.

Andrew leaned in so close that every exhalation of breath brushed against Neil’s face. “Talent.”

Neil’s eyebrows knit together and he bit back a sharp retort. “Why are you playing goalie?”

Andrew’s grin grew. “Two questions?”

“First one hardly counted.”

“That is on you, not me. You want better answers, then ask better questions. I will give you this one on the house, though. I play goalie, because they would not let me anywhere else on the court. Anger issues. Rage. Issues.” He emphasized the last two words, biting off the syllables so sharply his teeth clacked together.

“Minyard!!!”

“That will be all for now, roomie. My _talent_ is needed elsewhere.” Then he jerked towards Neil as though he was going to strike.

Neil jumped backwards, heart pounding out of his throat, but Andrew just gave a chilling little laugh, then strode off towards the court.

***

They didn’t let Neil shower after his run, but he supposed that Betsy’s reach only went so far. He made use of their blessedly empty room to change out of his sweat-soaked clothes and wriggle into his extra pair of sweats–all the while worrying about what Andrew might ask in return. 

The running was supposed to help.

Instead, as the endorphins faded, panic reared up, soaking Neil in sweat. He'd given up a partial truth before, and that seemed to have staved off Andrew's curiousity. But his lies were already hard enough to keep track of, even without the small kernels of honesty. He layered it all in his mind, thinking through every fabrication he'd built Neil Josten on, thinking through every possible story he could tell. _Mom is dead. She is dead. Mom is dead. Nathan Wesninski is…_

Neil flinched back, throat closing tighter and tighter.

 _Mom is dead_ , he started again. _Nathan...Dad...my Dad is dead…_

Even thinking the lie hurt.

_Run. Run, run, run, run, run, run–_

Neil sucked in a breath and found himself suddenly at the sink, hands gripping the metal basin so tight the edges were cutting into his skin. He forced his eyes to the mirror, forced himself to stare with that icy blue gaze. His father had those eyes. His father had eyes that cut glass.

Neil had scared eyes, but there was glass in his throat, in his lungs, in his stomach. He breathed shards of it, and with every movement he made, they sliced deeper.

He grabbed at his hair, pulling it tight enough to hurt, and rose up on the balls of his feet.

It had only been two weeks.

It had only been two weeks.

It had only been–

“No…” Neil whimpered. The red was there, shining through. It was barely noticeable but it was _there_. He tugged harder, like he could will it to change back, like if he destroyed himself from the outside in, then the inside out would stay invisible.

The door buzzed.

Neil forced his hands down and turned on the sink while trying to catch his breath. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to breathe, or rip the memories of blood and terror from underneath his skin, or how to keep _living_.

Another keening whine bubbled up, and he clamped his mouth closed around it, flinching as sound still managed to escape.

“Could you have your nervous breakdown somewhere else?”

Andrew’s irritated voice was rock hard and loud, but it was something stable–something Neil could latch on to.

He took a deep breath in and focused on washing his hands.

Focused on breathing out.

Focused on breathing in again.

Focused on shoving everything back down and locking it away, because he was Neil Josten, he was a dozen aliases away from that other boy, and Neil Josten wasn’t broken. Neil Josten didn’t have to be weak.

“I’m fine,” Neil managed to get out, proud at himself for how little his voice shook.

“Clearly.”

The soap that came out of their dispenser had stripped his hands red and raw, but he kept scrubbing. When he could finally breathe again, when he finally trusted himself to speak without shaking, Neil cut the water and turned around.

Andrew was standing near the dressers, hands clenched tight around a single rolled piece of paper and eyes carving Neil open.

“I’m fine,” Neil said again, louder this time.

Andrew rolled his eyes. He toed off his sneakers, and climbed up the ladder, throwing himself onto the bunk. “Busy week,” he called out, not laying down like usual, but swinging his legs over the sides and sitting. He kept staring staring at Neil, kicking his feet out and in, out and in, out and in. “Busy, busy, busy.”

It was the first time Andrew had shown any inclination of talking inside of their room since the first two days Neil had been in here. Neil wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but the vestiges of his almost panic-attack were choking the life out of him and he was too tired to fight it. “Game again next Friday?” he asked quietly.

“Indeed.”

Neil shrugged. “Okay.” He wandered to the furthest edge of his own bed and sat down, careful to stay out of the way of Andrew’s swinging feet.

Paper dropped into his lap, crumpled and damp with sweat.

“There you go, sports star,” Andrew taunted.

Neil smoothed the sheet out. It was a permission form for Exy, signed by Brian the youth specialist. There was an open space for Dobson to sign, a space for Neil to sign, all underneath a very sparsely worded liability waver.

“I thought there were tryouts,” Neil said. He was tired of playing Andrew’s games, and this reeked of something more sinister.

“I guess. Sure. There’s an open spot, and the therapists all go nuts trying to use that as an excuse to get a few more kids in the program. Good for mental health, you know.”

Neil couldn’t see Andrew, but he could hear the mocking derision in his tone.

“So this isn’t a spot.”

“Oh how the mighty have fallen. And here, I thought you were an Exy superstar who would be gracing us all with his kingly presence on the court.” he paused, presumably waiting for Neil to fill in with some sharp jab.

Neil didn’t want to play any more games.

Neil just wanted to sleep.

“It's a spot as long as you are better than the others,” Andrew said with a sneer. “So be better than the others.”

“Why? Why did you...” Neil motioned worthlessly at the air, even though he knew Andrew couldn’t see.

Andrew’s legs stopped swinging and he drew them up again, flopping down on the bed hard enough that the mattress bounced above Neil’s head. “Saying thanks really that hard for you?”

“Fuck you.” He tried for venom, but it just came out tinged with nothing but exhaustion.

Andrew just chuckled. “Dinner is in an hour. I am tired. I am taking a nap. If you ever touch me again, you will be dead."

“You still have a question.”

“I still have a question,” Andrew confirmed.

Neil waited, but Andrew didn’t speak again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andrew is starting to feel things he doesn't want to be feeling...
> 
> I'm back! Shorter chapter this time *sorry*. Thanks so much to everyone still reading this!! <3 <3

It was raining.

If there was one thing that Andrew knew he could count on in life, it was that California was insistent on pushing its stupid, sunny, beautiful day bullshit agenda in his face day after day. So to walk outside and see the dark of a storm was not only unexpected, it was something almost beautiful. The rest of the Exy group continued across the lawn to the hangar, but Andrew stopped, looked straight up at the sky, and didn't even blink as the rain sheeted across his face.

With the rain came an impenetrable, muggy heat that made breathing almost impossible, but it didn’t matter to Andrew. He could listen to the rumble of thunder in the sky and watch the way the water spattered against the mud and revel in the way the sky was almost as furious as he was.

Someone smacked into him, and Andrew turned and glared daggers at a black-haired, pimple-ridden teenager who had at least six inches on him. Even though Andrew had been the one who’d stopped up the line, the teenager stepped back with a hastily muttered ‘sorry.’

Andrew just snarled, and when the other kid walked nervously around him, Andrew tried not to let the burn of his own hostility overtake the one moment of rain-filled happiness.

Inside, Coach Beltran started pulling out equipment, and everyone suited up, grabbing mismatched racquets and padding and helmets. The rookie ‘try-out-squad’ were all here today, and so Andrew hung back, watching as his roommate pulled padding stained with someone else’s sweat from the giant canvas bin.

Neil didn’t seem fazed–just put everything on and followed the team over to the bleachers like the good little sheep he was.

There was a helmet that Andrew liked, and a set of padding that Andrew liked, and a racquet that Andrew liked, and even though he stood around and waited for the rest of the idiots to finish suiting up, they were still there, waiting for him.

 _Privileges of being a feral dog_ , he thought with a grin as he shrugged into the gear. Coach was already talking by the time he meandered over and climbed the metal benches, making sure that every step he took was as loud and as obnoxious as possible.

The veteran members of the team didn’t even look, because they knew better, but two of the rookies turned around.

Andrew bared his teeth.

Neil ignored him completely, and for some reason, Andrew found that unacceptably irritating. He paused on his way up to the highest bench.

“Minyard,” Beltran yelled. “Sit your ass down.”

Andrew gave him a two fingered salute, then flopped down directly behind Neil, who, to his credit, didn’t even flinch.

The pre-practice speech was the same, boring shit that Beltran always felt the need to force down their throats. Andrew tuned him out and focused all of his energy on leaning forward and holding his pointer finger just shy of Neil’s neck. Closer, closer, closer–

He brushed the hairs on the back of Neil’s neck and quickly withdrew as Neil’s hand came up to scratch.

Andrew grinned.

Then he did it again.

On the third time, Neil’s hand shot back, faster than Andrew could have anticipated, and snagged Andrew’s wrist as he was trying to pull away.

Neil turned his head just enough so that Andrew could see his profile.

“Fuck. Off.”

He dropped Andrew’s hand, then turned back to Coach, who was deep in the midst of explaining how the schedule for the Exy team fit into the regularly scheduled thrill-a-minute juvenile detention system week.

“No fun,” Andrew whispered.

Neil didn’t say anything.

Frowning, Andrew waited a long minute, then very carefully, very slowly, held his breath and leaned all the way forward until…

“Boo,” he whispered against the shell of Neil’s ear.

He gave almost no reaction at all, just shot an irritated glance in Andrew’s direction, then settled his eyes right back on Coach.

How irredeemably boring.

Andrew told him so.

Finally, Neil turned to face him. “You clearly wasted some amount of time and or energy on getting me a chance on this team,” he hissed under his breath. “If it was only to have someone to avail yourself of in case of boredom, then fuck right off. I’m not impressed.”

“Avail?” Andrew sniffed. “ _Avail?_ ”

Neil’s eyebrow raised, but he didn’t seem inclined to engage in a battle of wits, which was also irredeemably boring, and Andrew was very much starting to regret his decision to play nice with Neil fucking- _avail_ Josten.

“Stop it,” Neil said quietly. “Last warning.”

“Or?”

“MINYARD!”

Andrew shot up and gave a winning grin to Beltran. “Yes, Coach?”

Looking utterly unimpressed, Beltran just shook his head and glared. “Fine. Meet and greet over. I want everyone on the court, we’re running drills for twenty minutes, then we’re going to do two short scrimmages and let you assholes vie for striker.” He looked over at Neil and the other three rookies at the last part, and was apparently satisfied by whatever he saw in their faces, because he motioned towards the court door. “Go.”

Two of the rookies were disasters and couldn’t even make it past the backliners to get a shot at all.

One, an obnoxious thirteen year old named Connor, was halfway decent.

Andrew let him score because it was fun. He looked over to Neil who was sitting on the bench, waiting for his turn to play, and was incredibly satisfied to see the look of utter dismay painting his face.

So he let Connor score again.

They cycled through until it was Neil’s turn, and he came barreling onto the court, shoving his helmet down in practiced motions, entire body ready to fight.

Andrew had already figured he had to have some experience, but when the buzzer went off, Neil was off like a rocket down the court towards him, catching the ball the dealer threw on a rebound and shooting it towards Andrew before the idiot backliners had even realized that he was there.

Andrew refused to acknowledge the buzzing adrenaline that was threatening to flood his system.

He didn’t like Exy.

He didn’t like Neil.

He didn’t like this.

Neil shot towards him again and took another shot, which Andrew barely managed to swat away.

Andrew clacked his stick on the ground as threateningly as he possibly could, and growled.

Eventually, the backliners started pulling their weight and kept Neil away for small amounts of time, but nothing could really stop him for long. He kept right on shooting the ball at Andrew’s net, and Andrew kept right on swatting it back away, but by the time Beltran whistled an end to the scrimmage, he was soaked through with sweat, hair so wet it was dripping into his eyes.

Oh, he very much did not like Neil.

The doors opened, the rest of the kids rushed the court, Andrew looked up and Neil was standing there, helmet off, hand out, cocky grin plastered on his stupid, black and blue face.

“Good game,” he said.

Andrew grit his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. “Nope.”

He purposely walked off the court, not looking to see if Neil followed, and ended up back near the bleachers with the rest of the team, who now stunk of sweat. Andrew did not sit behind Neil this time. This time, he headed to the top, set his helmet next to him, and tried his hardest not to rub his wrists against the side of the metal.

“What’s that look, Minyard?” Beltran called up. “He make you actually have to work for it?”

Neil turned around from the bottom bench. That grin was still there, but this time, his eyes flashed icy blue.

Andrew was going to kill him later. He was going to break his nose again. He was going to hold his head in the toilet. He was going to wait until Neil woke up gasping from a nightmare and then laugh in his face.

Neil had turned back around by the time Andrew finished cataloguing the many ways he’d make Neil Josten suffer, and so it should have been easier to force his face back into some semblance of _I don’t give a fuck._

It wasn’t.

Coach gave them notes, then grabbed his clipboard and pointed at reject rookie #1, reject rookie #2, and reject rookie #Connor. “Subs,” he said. “You get to practice once a week, but no games. No–” he held up a hand as Connor started protesting, “–you’re lucky I’m giving you that much. I know how much you kids need an outlet, but this is all I can do. You.” He pointed to Neil. “You’re on the team.”

Neil gave a tight nod, but otherwise didn’t move a single muscle.

“Pads in the dirty bin. Helmets and racquets in the clean. You’ve got two minutes before you need to be out of here, so move.”

Most of the kids took him at his word and quickly made their way to the bins. Andrew didn’t, and with Beltran’s attention elsewhere, it took all of thirty seconds before Connor was shoving into Neil’s face, face red with anger.

“You fucker,” Andrew heard him say. “You…”

He hauled back for a punch, but Beltran was already there, grabbing his arm and holding tight.

“Not worth it, kid,” he muttered. Security was running over, but Andrew watched the fight go out of Connor’s body.

Not his eyes, though.

For Neil’s part, he didn’t react at all, just lazily flicked a look over at Andrew, then shucked his padding off and walked towards the bin.

Andrew jogged to catch up. “He going to be a problem?”

“Nope.”

“Seems like you have another enemy.”

Neil turned on him. “We gonna push this?” he snapped.

Andrew opened his arms and stepped back, giving his most winning, _I don’t give two shits_ smile. “I don’t have any idea what you are talking about.”

“This,” Neil said, waving towards the court. “You threaten me. You taunt me. You get me a spot on the team. You taunt me some more. You planning on kicking the shit out of me later? Are you waiting for me to break and throw the first punch? Whatever you want, just let me know, because honestly, I’m tired of your bullshit.”

Andrew blinked in surprise. “Not such a rabbit, after all?”

“You’re the one who labeled me. Don’t act all pissy when you find out you were wrong.”

“I liked you better when you were quiet.”

“You didn’t like me at all.”

“True.” Andrew heaved a heavily dramatic sigh. “What to do, what to do, what to do…”

Neil rolled his eyes, then stalked away, robbing Andrew of any final say.

“Hey?” One of the rookies asked from behind him. “Do we, I mean, do the racquets go here?” Andrew looked at him and gave a dry nod. As soon as the kid walked past, he stuck out a foot and watched him go sprawling on the cement floor.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Andrew plastered a grin on his face and strolled away as the sound of rain pounding against the roof filled the hangar.

***

The security guard who escorted them back to the room wasn’t someone Andrew had seen before. She wore a very blue, very crisp uniform, and her badge was just a little too shiny.

“Espinoza,” Andrew read off in a grating rattle. “First week? First day? How’s juvie treating you?”

She didn’t answer, just led them all the way down the hall where she buzzed their door open with her key card.

The schedule in the plastic sheet on their door had been updated for the weekend. Neil eyed his for only a second before continuing into the room.

Andrew took longer. Tuesday through Friday were normal. Then– 

_ Saturday: 1:30 PM Visitation _

There was no reason to expect that Cass wouldn’t try again, but he hated the way he could feel that useless hope shriveling inside of his chest.

He followed Neil inside the room.

Neil stood next to his bed, leaning against the bunk, feral gleam in his eye.

“You tried today,” he said.

Andrew ignored him.

“Come on,” Neil continued, as Andrew pushed past him and climbed to the top bunk. “You want me to throw the first punch? Here it is. You tried. You let that asshole Connor kid score, but you wouldn't let me get a shot in."

"Maybe asshole Connor was better than you."

"Coach didn't seem to think so," Neil said returned with an icy coldness. "You beg for secrets, then you ignore me. You break my nose, then you get me a spot on the team. You say you don't care, but you blocked every shot I took on that court. What is it then? If I can push you to a psychotic break, will I get the room to myself?”

Andrew's fists clenched at his sides. “Awfully confident, coming from the poster child for mental health," he finally ground out. "Now would be a very good time for you to shut your face and find something else to occupy your idiot rabbit brain.”

“Not even a clever metaphor?” Neil piped up.

He was at least smart enough not to try climbing the bunk again, but Andrew still had to fight everything inside of himself not to come right back down and destroy him. Instead, he turned so his back faced the wall, pushing himself back hard enough that nothing could hurt him.

Neil gave up trying to get a response and grabbed homework off the top of his dresser, then crawled into bed, causing the metal to groan and squeak.

Andrew watched the door to the room with laser focus, listening to the sound of Neil’s pencil against the paper. He pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt up far enough that he could rub his fingers against the ridged lines of skin that he’d destroyed. He thought of Exy, he thought of Neil, he thought of the smack of a ball against a racquet, he thought of the sound of rain, he thought of the smell of sweat on the court, he thought of Neil, he thought of how he shouldn’t be thinking of Neil.

Andrew blinked.

He thought of Saturday.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Andrew POV! This one comes with some heavy stuff:
> 
> **EXTRA WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:**  
>  _* **Drake** (who deserves an entire archive warning, let’s be honest)_  
>  _* **Allusions to past rape/non-con** (nothing even remotely explicit)_  
>  _* **Self-Harm**_
> 
> ******************************  
> Notes on Andrew: Nora has made mention of his mental health on her blog. I HC him as manic/depressive bipolar, and am writing him that way :)
> 
> I really like this chapter and hope you all do as well!
> 
> Last note: The support this fic is getting is astounding to me! Thank you all so much. I'm just so, so happy to have people reading and enjoying! Please come yell at me on Twitter about all things AFTG because I scream into the void too much 😂

Andrew flipped a chair around and settled into it backwards, watching the kids around him leap up from their seats and scurry away like terrified mice. He’d have grinned, but that would have ruined his entire aesthetic. Instead, he leaned over the back of the chair, head on top of his arms, and fixed his glare on anyone who came too close.

They were pathetic.

When he’d first arrived at Oakland, a couple of different factions decided he was easy bait. After putting more than a couple of kids in the hospital, word got around pretty quickly that he wasn’t someone to be messed with. Andrew didn’t have to work hard to keep up the act–more often than not, violence was seething through his blood, so close to the surface that even the smallest infraction might cause it to burst free.

Betsy was working on it.

She wasn’t very successful so far.

Andrew huffed, hot breath soaking into the fabric of his sweatshirt and heating his arm. Then he flicked his eyes over to the courtyard window.

There was no exy match on tv–just a local news station interviewing some mother of six about stranger danger–and so more of the boys were out there than in here.

Unsurprisingly, Rabbit was running laps around the inner perimeter of the courtyard. Andrew fixed his eyes on one far corner and started counting every time Neil went by. 1. 2. 3. 4. He made it to 8, before Neil disappeared from sight and didn’t come around the bend again.

Andrew waited a full minute, but when he didn’t reappear, curiosity got the better of him. He stood from the chair and the boys inside made a wide path for him all the way to the door.

Neil was against the far wall, surrounded by a group of taller kids. Andrew recognized Connor as one of them–the loud mouth who’d lost the spot on the Exy team. Pushing the door open, Andrew stepped outside and found himself a nice place right along the wall to watch.

Connor shoved Neil.

Neil didn’t move.

Connor shoved him again.

Andrew was just close enough to see the curve Neil’s lips made when he was about to deliver a wise ass remark, then the entire pack of boys jumped him.

“Fight, fight, fight!” rang throughout the courtyard, and Andrew stepped smoothly out of the way as the doors burst open and security guards ran through.

Brian trailed last, and paused for just a minute, eyeing Andrew. “You have anything to do with this, Minyard?”

“Hey!” Andrew said, throwing up his arms in mock outrage. “I am all the way over here. They are all the way over there. It hurts that you think so little of me. Deep, deep hurt Brian. After all the time we’ve spent together?”

Brian’s eyes narrowed, studying Andrew intently as though looking for the punchline to a joke that didn’t exist. Finally, he shrugged. “Stay out of trouble, kid.”

“Always do, Brian,” Andrew quipped as Brian walked towards the chaos. “Always do!”

As far as fights went, it wasn’t much of one. The second the guards got involved, Connor jumped back with his hands over his head shouting “It wasn’t me, I didn’t start it, It wasn’t me,” at a nauseating interval. Two of the other kids were pulled off of Neil and marched past Andrew–one with a rapidly swelling eye, and the other with a cocky grin plastered to his face. Neil emerged from the mess with the help of one of the guards and clearly tried to shrug him off, but was marched right past Andrew anyway. His nose was bleeding again, but otherwise, he seemed fine.

“Nice look, roomie,” Andrew called to him.

Neil just flashed him a bloody grin, then disappeared through the door.

As far as fights went, it was very, very boring.

Andrew went back inside. Some kids had gathered around the tv again, so he marched over and kicked one of the empty chairs as violently as he could.

Aesthetic.

“Minyard!” a guard called in warning.

“Whoops!” Andrew said, turning and giving his customary salute. “Didn’t see that there!”

The alarm buzzed the entire affair over within another minute, and Andrew allowed himself to be herded back to his very boring, very empty room.

***

Neil didn’t appear for another hour, and when he finally arrived, it was with a sour frown painting his face.

Swinging out of his bed, Andrew pushed into Neil’s space immediately, only somewhat pleased by how quickly Neil stepped back against the wall.

“You okay?” Andrew asked with a grin. “You didn’t look okay.”

Neil’s eyes flashed warily to his face, but there was deep anger there, the sort of rage that Andrew was intimately familiar with. “Thanks for the help,” he jeered.

“Ah ah. You told me on day one you didn’t need protection.”

Neil eyes grew even darker, then he finally threw his hands up in frustration. “Could you just move?”

“Could you ask nicely?”

“Oh, fuck you, asshole.”

“I’ll settle for something else.”

“Andrew, I swear to god. I am not in the mood to deal with your bull–”

“Secret. One for one.”

“No.”

“You agreed to this.”

Neil’s mouth drew to a straight line and he growled, “No. _You_ agreed to this.”

Andrew shrugged. It was true, but he was bored, and he had nothing better to do. He threw an arm up against the wall, trapping Neil between his own body and the door. Neil’s mouth drew to a straight line and he sucked in a sharp breath, entire body tightening.

It wasn’t fear. Andrew knew him well enough by now to understand that. It was something far more violent.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” Andrew asked. It wasn’t the question he wanted to ask, but it spilled out of him, curious and frustratingly raw.

Neil’s eyes widened for just a second, then settled right back down into their normal hateful glare. “Not worth it.”

“Hardly an answer.”

“I didn’t even agree to play the game in the first place!” Neil burst out. “I don’t know what you want from me! I didn’t fight back because it wasn’t worth it. With Connor? I landed a few punches, but fighting to hurt is just going to end up hurting me more in the long run. No running. No library. No exy. With you?” He swallowed hard, blue eyes shards of ice. “You’re nothing but a midget jerk who thinks he can get what he wants through violence. Not worth it. An asshole will always be a an asshole.”

Andrew considered for a moment. “But you could win?”

“Just because you _can_ win a fight doesn’t mean you should.”

Neil stared at Andrew with such earnestness at that, Andrew couldn’t help but laugh.

“That wasn’t supposed to be funny.”

Andrew scrubbed a hand through his hair and tried to stop, but the laughter kept bubbling out of him, tinged with so much anger he wanted to choke. “That’s the fucking stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he finally managed to grate out. “Who the fuck told you that?”

“It’s my turn for a question,” Neil said bitterly.

Andrew hated him so much it flooded his veins, turned his vision black and red and black again, threatened to overflow and drip poison from his mouth. “Fine,” he finally said.

“Do you miss her?”

The question hit him like a punch to the gut, and Andrew gaped at him for too long, mouth wide open like a fish out of water. He finally managed to shut it long enough to swallow, and he pushed himself away from the wall and walked back over to the bed.

“Hey,” Neil called. “You’re the one who started this game.”

“I don’t know _her_ you’re referring to,” Andrew growled. He clenched his teeth together and swallowed again, trying to find the air to speak, trying to tamp down on the buzz in his ears that was growing louder than Neil’s voice. “There are a great many hers in my life.”

“Your mom,” Neil said. "Do you miss her?"

His voice was quieter now, and Andrew chanced a look over his shoulder to see Neil not even watching him, but looking down at the floor.

Andrew scoffed. “I don’t have a mom.” He watched just long enough to see Neil flick a desperate, haunted look up at him, then launched himself up into the bunk and tried to pretend that it didn’t bother him to keep that secret and break his word--tried not to think about the fact that the pain in Neil’s words was too close to mirroring to his own.

***

Friday was Bee.

She tried to talk to him but Andrew tuned her out. His rage had built all week, almost completely unquenchable, almost enough to get him another extension on his time when he fractured in the middle of practice on Thursday and threw his racquet with all his strength at Coach Beltran. Then, hours later in the middle of dinner, it all snapped inside of him, falling to a black nothingness that devoured every last piece of emotion.

He preferred the anger. It got him into trouble, but at least he could still _feel_.

“Andrew?”

He tore himself from his thoughts and raised his head off of his arms just enough so that she could see his eyes. “Yup.”

“I was asking you about tomorrow. You have a visitation with your mother. And your brother, is it?”

“Yup.”

“You haven’t talked much about him, and I don’t think that I’ve seen his name on your list before. Will it be nice to see them?”

Andrew frowned.

“Andrew?”

Sighing, Andrew buried his head in his arms again. “I don’t really want to talk, today.”

“That’s not a problem, Andrew. Would you be willing to show me your arms?”

Andrew pulled them in closer to himself and tugged at the cuffs on his sweatshirt. “No.”

“I know it’s hard to talk about–”

“It’s not hard to talk about,” Andrew muttered. “It is what it is.”

“That’s not true.” After a long pause of waiting for him to respond, she finally gave up. “I think there are some pieces to the puzzle that we aren’t addressing quite yet and I would like to consider making some changes in medication–”

“No.”

He knew he didn’t have a choice. He was in lock-up, she was his therapist, whatever she said, they’d do, but he was so tired, and he just…

“I am not going to make any changes without your permission.”

“Uh huh.”

“Andrew?”

He forced his head back up.

“You know you can trust me.”

He did. Bee had proven to be...different. Not different enough to trust completely, not different enough to spill all his secrets too, but at least willing to listen. At least willing to fight for him when no one else would. “I don’t want to,” he said.

Andrew hated how small his voice sounded, but even hate was too strong a word for the numbness eating away at his insides.

“Ok,” she said. “We’re going to put a pin in that conversation for a later date. We’ve got another five minutes, and I’d really like to try one of those breathing exercises–”

“Not interested.” He tilted his head towards her shelf, and pointed up at the crystal figurines. “Where did you get that one?”

She tried to follow his finger, but her nose wrinkled in confusion.

“The fox,” he clarified. “The one that’s sleeping.”

“Oh!” Betsy smiled and the glow of it was almost warm enough to make Andrew care. “Came from an art fair in Phoenix. I have a sister who lives just south of the city, and every winter, I manage to make it out for a visit. Do you like foxes?”

“No.”

“I’m partial to dragons, myself.”

He wanted to look at her, but it was too much work. Eventually, the buzzer dinged and Andrew was escorted back into a room where Neil watched him for half a second, apparently gauged him harmless, and turned back down to his book without sparing a single word.

***

Saturday came.

Andrew tried to summon rage, but all he could manage was the same hollow apathy that had been eating through him for days. He glared a few kids into place during breakfast, he rode out Neil’s questioning stare during lunch, and then it was time.

It was visitation.

The room they used to herd all the families and into was bigger than the rec room was. There were dozens of tables bolted into the floor with matching bolted stools, and each inmate got a full hour to sit and speak with their loved ones.

Some kids cried. Some kids didn’t.

Cass was waiting for him at the same table she always sat at. Her bright blonde hair was fixed into place with one of those toothy clips, and her smile flashed bright, illuminating how tired her eyes looked.

Next to her was Andrew’s nightmare.

Drake Spear had buzzed his head down to military standards, and he was wearing fatigues, which only served to make him look larger and more imposing. He smiled too, but he looked nothing like Cass–not bright, not warm, just _Drake_.

Brian led him out to the table in handcuffs like always. Drake eyes were drawn immediately to the glint of the metal with a grin, and Andrew furiously fought not to look away.

“Oh, Andrew,” Cass said, standing up to hug him.

Andrew allowed himself to be pulled into her embrace, but even though he tried, he wasn’t able to soften the stiffness of his limbs. She noticed–of course she noticed–but she didn’t say anything, just stepped back with her hands still wrapped around his arms and studied him with eyes already filling with tears. “We’ve missed you so much. I’m so sorry that we weren’t able to see you two weeks ago. Drake was–” she looked over at Drake, but Andrew refused to follow her stare. “He was disappointed. But he managed to reschedule his off week so he could come this time!

“Hey, little brother,” Drake called from the stool, not moving to stand at all.

Cass sat down again directly across from Drake, leaving Andrew the choice of two seats–both in between them.

He cautiously sat down, placing his hands down on the table in front of him carefully so as not to cause the metal to clang, every muscle in his body tight.

“We’ve missed you so much,” Cass started, just as Drake slid a hand over Andrew’s thigh. It was supposed to look friendly.

It wasn’t.

 _It doesn’t matter,_ the voice in Andrew’s head chanted. _It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t–_

“Andrew?”

He blinked, suddenly in Bee’s office. He blinked, and Drake’s hand was over his mouth, he blinked and Drake’s mouth was against his ear whispering _don’t scream_ , he blinked and he was watching Neil, watching the reaction to his question, _why didn't you fight back? ,_ watching to see if there might be a solution for the self-hatred that burned him up from the inside.

“Sorry,” he muttered, but he didn’t know what he was sorry for.

“That’s okay!” Cass reached across the table and wrapped her hand around Andrew’s. Her skin was warm, and it smelled like that plumeria lotion she liked to use, and Andrew tried to push it all from his mind because he wasn’t allowed to have this.

Drake’s hand slid higher, and then it was gone.

“What’s it like in here, anyway?” Drake asked, propping his elbows up on the table and eyeing Andrew. “They got you playing exy, can’t be all bad.”

“It’s fine.”

Cass was tracing patterns into the space between his thumb and forefinger, and she was sniffling, and she was starting to cry, and he missed her so much he wanted to scream.

“Naa, kiddo. It’s gotta suck, right?”

“Drake,” Cass warned.

“I just want the inside scoop! What’s it like to be in lockup with the best of today’s violent youth?”

“Drake,” she hissed.

Andrew didn’t answer.

He let Cass tell him about baking. He let Cass tell him about the house, and how they were having the bathrooms redone, and how she hadn’t changed his room at all, but they were painting the rest of the house so if he wanted a new color, just let her know and she’d get it done.

He listened to Drake talk about basic training.

He listened to Drake tell him how he still got to come home every other weekend.

He listened to Drake tell him that he’d always make time for Andrew.

When the hour ended, Cass asked for a picture of her boys.

Drake threw his arms around Andrew and pulled him close enough that Andrew could smell his aftershave. Even when she set her phone down, Drake didn’t let go, just hung on tight and bent his head down to the top of Andrew’s.

“Miss you, AJ,” he said, loud enough that Cass could hear. “Can’t wait to have you home again.”

Andrew didn’t say anything, just let the blackness do its job and eat away every last bit of himself.

When Brian finally led him back, Andrew washed his hands in the sink, then grabbed his book and sat in the corner of the room, reading.

Neil didn’t ask why he wasn’t in his bed, and Andrew hated that he was grateful.

In the showers that night, he scrubbed himself as hard as he could, and when that wasn’t enough, he scratched long lines down his forearms as hard as he could, and when that wasn’t enough, he punched against the concrete wall of the shower stall as hard as he could until he split his knuckles open.

Then he did it again.

He watched the water run pink at his feet until the showers cut off, and when the guards called for everyone to finish, he followed the line back to the room, pulled himself up into bed, waited until the lights went out, then stared into the darkness, counting the way his traitor heart beat so steadily long after Neil’s breath evened out into sleep.

1

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3

4.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for the amazing comments and feedback! I cannot thank you all enough for the support!
> 
> By this point, it's probably clear, but this is wildly unbetaed so all the many mistakes and continuity errors are my own. (I keep going back and fixing random things in previous chapters. It's a wild ride. By the end of this, WHO KNOWS what the beginning will look like 😂)

_His hands are wrapped around a steering wheel that smells like blood, but that isn’t right, it’s the car that smells like blood, but that isn’t right, it’s his mom who smells like blood. If he turns his head to look, he can see her hands coated in it, pressed against her side trying to hold herself together._

_If he turns his head to look she snaps at him to keep going._

_“I’ll be fine,” she says._

_**Fine. Fine. Fine.** _

_It’s a word that echoes, that grows wings and talons before nesting in his heart. **I’ll be fine.**_

_Neil has no choice but to press his foot on the gas until the vastness of the ocean lays in front of him and he can’t drive anymore._

_**Fine** grows tendrils that curl up his throat and lodge in his ears, but still he can hear the sound of her whimpering._

_It turns out, a body is not so easy to burn._

_He has gasoline, he has matches, he watches flames eat the sky and light up an expanse of black water that lines a horizon that is supposed to be beautiful, but skin sloughs and sticks to leather and the smell of burning hair clogs in his nose so thick it burns._

_The water is littered with metal–serrated knives with teeth that bite at his ankles, hatchets that reflect fire in their shiny blades, axes that call his father’s name, then call his name, then scream for blood._

_Neil tries to run, but the sand sucks at his feet and takes the form of his father’s men pinning him down with blades. Then it becomes Andrew, sitting on his chest and laughing as he cries. Then it’s his father, grinning through bloody teeth, hands dripping with someone else’s screams. The sand grows bolder, flooding over his arms and legs, covering his chest, sifting into his mouth, burying him so deeply that there is nothing but the sound of **Fine**._

***

Neil jerked awake, the echo of a whimper still loud in his ears. He pressed a fist to his mouth and bit around it, squeezed his eyes closed and counted, tried to listen past his own panicked breaths to see if Andrew was awake and listening to him be anything but _fine_.

It was impossible to tell.

The counting didn’t help; he could still feel the heat of the car licking at his fingers, he could still hear the sounds his mom made as she choked for a last breath. Another small sound escaped around his fist and Neil bit down hard, trying to focus on the pain he was creating instead of the pain that curled around his insides and pulled him under. His eyes were broken cameras in the dark, and no matter how many times he blinked, everything was still blurry.

Neil Josten wasn’t supposed to cry.

Neil Josten was supposed to be stronger than Nathaniel.

“Sink.”

Andrew’s voice was a low growl of irritation above him, and Neil squeezed his eyes closed and sucked in a breath of air that was too shallow to reach his lungs. Andrew heaved a sigh above him and then the entire bed creaked as he crawled down the ladder.

Neil didn’t want to look.

“I’m serious,” Andrew said, closer now. “Get out of bed, go to the sink, stick your face in the cold water.”

“Go away,” Neil moaned.

“You better believe me when I say, I would if I fucking could.”

Then Andrew fisted his hands in the blanket and yanked so hard Neil was jerked to the edge of the bed.

“Get out of bed. Go to the sink. Are you stupid? Simple directions, _Neil_.”

Neil sucked in another breath and managed to wrap his lungs around some of it. “Go away,” he tried again. “ _Please_ , go away.”

“Pretty sure I already told you. I hate that word.” He reached in, grabbed Neil, and yanked him onto the floor.

It was a shock to his system, the loss of blanket, the cold of linoleum, the touch of a hand that was so solidly planted in reality.

Neil rolled onto his back as breath shuddered back into him, and watched the shadowy shape of Andrew climb right back up the ladder and throw himself into bed.

Neil stayed on the floor a long time. His heart was pumping furiously in his chest as he fought for air, and he could still smell gasoline, but the dregs of the nightmare were already starting to fade, and his eyes could focus again, now on the unflinching bright of the red exit sign.

Eventually, he forced himself up and made it over to the sink. The fuzz of apathy that came after a panic attack was already curling around his limbs, and he was too tired to care what Andrew thought. He didn’t stick his face in the sink, but he bent his head down and drank from the faucet.

Then he went back to bed and refused to close his eyes again.

***

Breakfast was a thick glop of oatmeal and a pathetic looking cup of greying orange slices and wilting strawberries. Neil took his tray without a word and made his way to the empty end of the table that they always sat at. It only took Andrew another minute to join him.

“Why?” Neil asked quietly, pushing at the oatmeal with a white plastic spork.

Andrew looked up and met Neil’s eyes with his own tired stare. “You’re not the only one who has nightmares,” he finally said. He reached over and speared one of Neil’s strawberries, brought it over to his own tray, and then proceeded to mash it up into a disgusting looking paste.

“You could at least eat it,” Neil sighed.

“You weren’t going to.”

He would have, but it was pointless to expend any more energy on an argument with Andrew. Neil kept pushing at the oatmeal. It didn’t get any more appetizing, so he forced himself to take a bite. “Water wouldn’t have helped.”

Andrew shrugged. “Okay.”

“Why are you talking to me?”

“Boredom.”

“Why did you get Dr. Dobson to sign off on exy for me?”

Andrew’s eyebrows raised, and he reached over and tried to stab another strawberry.

Neil was quicker this time, and snagged his cup out of reach.

“Also boredom,” Andrew replied. “We playing questions again?”

“It’s called conversation,” Neil said.

“Here I took you for the quiet type.”

“Here I took you for the violent type,” Neil returned.

The line of Andrew’s jaw grew tense, and his fingers tightened around the little plastic spork, but finally he let out a harsh, almost-chuckle. “I have many sides. Multi-faceted. A sharp, little diamond. A little like someone else I know, Neil, Rabbit, Mr. Exy, Roomie, Boy-Who-Does-Not-Have-A-Real-Name.”

“Are you done, yet?”

“You wanted to converse. I am conversing. I am conversational.”

Neil swallowed the last of his oatmeal. There was an exhaustion headache pounding at the edges of his temples, but he didn’t want to sleep again for a long time.

“Minyard!”

Neil looked up to see one of the security guards walk over and set a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew didn’t flinch, but Neil could see the murder flash over his eyes for just a second before he blinked it away, emotion completely deadened.

“Group time. Come on.”

Andrew pushed up from the table and gave Neil a little salute. “Later, Thumper!” he called jovially, as the guard led him away.

Scowling, Neil looked back down at his tray of half-eaten food. He gave a half hearted attempt at chewing around a mushy strawberry.

It was disgusting.

He left the uneaten fruit cup on his tray, and later, as he tossed it into the trash, shrugged off his irritation that Andrew was right after all.

***

The exy court was the one place Neil could count on to exhaust him enough to no longer think. Coach started them off running today which was just fine by Neil; he shot off and managed to lap the entire rest of the team within the first two minutes, letting the burn of his muscles eat away at the constant tug of fear and anxiety. By the time they were called back to the court, Neil was breathing hard and sweating heavily and feeling better than he had all day.

There was a brief meeting at the bleachers where Beltran had procured a whiteboard and a dry erase marker and talked them through plays like they were actually athletes instead of washed up, dead-end kids with no futures, then he split them up into teams and sent them off onto the court for scrimmages. Unfortunately, the team had more than enough players for a scrimmage, so Neil ended up on the bench waiting his turn with Elias, one of the guys he’d met by name at last week’s practice, and another two boys he didn’t know yet.

“Max,” one of the dealer subs said, not actually looking at Neil.

Max was at least a head taller than he was, with an off kilter snake tattoo that crawled up his neck. Neil assumed this was an invitation for an introduction, so he sucked in a breath and tried not to roll his eyes. “Neil.”

“Yeah. I know. You’re roommates with the psycho.”

“Shit,” the other boy said. “Seriously? That fucking sucks, man.”

Neils eyes flicked up to Andrew, who was currently standing in an empty goal that no one had come remotely close to and smacking his racquet into the post loud enough that Neil could actually hear the muted clang through the plexiglass.

“It’s fine,” Neil muttered. He held his own raquet up and began painstakingly studying each of the woven threads of net in an attempt to appear busy enough to not have to talk.

“Naa,” Max said. “I heard that he put his first roommate in the hospital. Guy didn’t come out for months. Minyard got a whole extra year in this place.”

“I heard he started a riot in the cafeteria last year and spent a month in solitary,” Elias said, getting in on the action.

“I heard he killed his last roommate.”

“Fuck off, Adrian,” Max said, smacking the boy who’d spoken in the back of the head hard enough to earn a yelp. “If he killed him, he wouldn’t still be here. They try you as an adult for that shit.”

Neil let them bicker back and forth and kept his eyes on the court where the current striker on Andrew’s team had just missed a pass for the tenth time.

“Heard he gave you that face,” Adrian said, filtering back into Neil’s periphery.

“Huh?”

Adrian motioned to Neil’s nose. “That. Broke your nose on the first week, yeah? Must suck balls to live with him.”

“Psycho,” Max agreed. “Fucking psycho.”

“It’s not that bad,” Neil murmured. His knee was jiggling up and down, and his hands were sweaty, and his skin was itching with the need to be on that court. He didn’t want to talk about Andrew. He just wanted to hit a ball as hard as he could, and then do it again and again and again until he collapsed from pure exhaustion.

Out on the court, a very bored Andrew sat down in the goal and tossed his racquet to the side hard enough that it thumped into the edge of the wall.

“Only reason he gets to stay on this team is because he’s got that bitch therapist wrapped around his finger,” Max jeered.

“Lucky for you,” Neil muttered before he could stop himself.

All three boys turned to look at him.

“Because this team sucks,” Neil clarified. “And he’s the only one of you who actually deserves to be on a court.”

The whistle blew on the court, four guys were sent off, and Neil was up and off the bleachers before the others had a chance to respond.

 _Your mouth will get you killed_ , his mom’s voice echoed in his head, and she wasn’t far off.

As soon as the whistle blew, it became impossibly obvious that even though they were on the same side, Max, Elias, and Adrian had no intention of playing Exy, and every intention of bashing Neil against the plexiglass as many times as they could.

Neil still managed to snap the ball into the goal twelve times in the brutal twenty minute scrimmage, and even though he came off the court cradling an arm to his bruised ribs, he couldn’t help but grin.

“What did you say to piss off the kiddos this time?” Andrew murmured in his ear as they sat back down on the bleachers.

Neil didn’t look back at him. “Nothing untrue.”

Max and Adrian stormed up the bleachers, Max purposely bumping into Neil hard enough to topple him over.

“It’s like you have a death wish,” Andrew said. “Picking constant fights with these upstanding young citizens.”

“Was just protecting your honor.”

“Oh, Neil.”

Neil finally snuck a look back to see Andrew watching him with hooded eyes and a fiercely feral smile.

“If I had needed a knight, I would have asked someone taller.”

Neil grit his teeth and turned his eyes right back to the front again.

“Pathetic,” Beltran said, thwacking against the whiteboard with his marker. “Here!” He circled a stick figure. “And here! We can’t get anywhere if I don’t have my backliners in place, holding the line, and not roughing up the striker of their own goddamn team!”

Most of the boys had grown tired of his speeches and paid about as much attention to him as they did in their school classes. Neil listened for a half a minute before turning his attention to the regulation tennis shoes he’d been given on arrival. He’d already worn almost entirely through the soles, and he wondered what his odds were of getting another pair.

Probably low.

He’d taken up the racquet again, running the pads of his fingers along the warped wood, when the doors to the hangar banged open and a dozen people wrapped in cords, cameras, and microphones came walking in.

Neil froze.

“Ah!” Beltran announced. “You’re here!” He set his marker down with flourish and bounded off to greet the arrivals while the boys of the exy team proceeded to break into absolute chaos.

“What is this,” Neil hissed under his breath.

There was a creak of metal behind him, then Andrew thumped down beside him on the bench. “Don’t like surprises, Peter?”

Neil shot him a wary look.

“Rabbit. Peter Rabbit. Come on, didn’t your mommy ever read you bedtime stories?”

Neil wanted very much to hit him.

Smirking, Andrew leaned back on his hands and tipped his head back, exposing his throat like he knew Neil was no threat at all. “Relax. It’s just the local news station. Every year they get it in their heads that they need an inspiring, feel good story for the masses, and that the Oakland County Detention Facility Exy Team is worth a shot. They’ll interview a few kids. Get some shots of us playing. Then spoon feed the rich upper class a glorious picture of their tax dollars going to help inner-city, traumatized youth.”

Neil’s eyes flicked over a woman who was talking animatedly with Beltran while unloading a tripod camera. He could barely swallow around the lump of terror that had taken up residency in his throat.

“I need to get out of here,” he forced out.

“Aww, no interview from the golden boy of Exy?”

“Andrew...I…” Neil kept swallowing and it wasn’t helping, and he was trying to breathe, but that wasn’t helping either. If they got him on the news, if they got his picture out there, his father’s men would...his father would…

Neil’s fingers clawed in his hair and he tugged painfully, trying to get a grip on his panic. Sucking in a deep breath, he finally turned to face Andrew who was curiously silent, eyes studying Neil.

“Not a fan of cameras, I take it?” he finally asked.

Neil managed to shake his head no. Then he swallowed it all down and forced his features back into some semblance of calm. “I don’t like public speaking.” His words came out shaky and nervous, and Neil inwardly berated himself for that incredibly weak attempt at normalcy.

“Clearly,” Andrew deadpanned.

Most of the boys were raising hands and yelling wildly, trying to get their time on the air by the time Beltran made it back to the bleachers. He managed to get them quiet in record time, then read down a list of four names.

Neil’s was the last.

The tv crew was making their way towards them, the woman with the tripod was smiling brightly through a mouth painted with garish red lipstick, three of the boys called were already halfway down the bleachers, and–

“I think Neil’s about to puke,” Andrew called out.

Neil froze, then gave his best impression of looking sick. Luckily, it didn’t take much.

Beltran gave them a single glance, rolled his eyes, then called Max’s name instead.

“You owe me,” Andrew taunted, then he slid off the bench and walked casually over to the whiteboard that Beltran was no longer watching and began to draw dicks on all of the stick figures.

Neil picked up his helmet and forced it on his head. The sound of his breath was hollow inside–just a little too fast, just a little too wrong.

But they could no longer see him.

***

When they were back in the cell, he threw up in the toilet.

He scrubbed at his face with cold water.

He paced the room and counted his steps all the way until the buzzer rang for dinner.

Andrew didn’t say anything, but he watched the entire time.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I'm just so stunned and thrilled by how many folks are reading this! Thank you all so much. Your comments are seriously driving this entire (lack of) posting schedule haha. Aka- I'm moving through this so much faster than I'd anticipated because I just get so excited!
> 
> We are getting somewhere now? Maybe? Andrew is having a good day until Betsy makes it a bad day--but that's okay. He's having *feelings*. GOOD JOB ANDREW!
> 
> Comments and kudos are my life force. You guys are so awesome- let me know what you think!

Their schedules were rapidly narrowing down to a single, shared line. They'd already had meal time and free time together since they were on the same cell block, but now that Neil was on the exy team, they shared school, and, starting next week, group.

Andrew didn’t want to share group.

It wasn’t that he was nervous about Neil hearing something he shouldn’t–Andrew was notorious for not participating, so much so that he’d been sent to solitary over it on more than one occasion. Instead, it was just one more place for Neil to be across from him, watching him, scowling at him, distracting him.

Andrew did not like distractions.

But today was a good day.

Today was one of the days that he woke up and felt like he could do anything–like the black chasm of depression had been defeated for good, like nothing could stop him.

Andrew was smart enough to recognize that this wasn’t a lasting state, but he could at least try to enjoy it while he could.

Breakfast was the usual sub-standard fare, school was a joke, and by free time, Andrew almost threw himself into one of the chairs by the tv to slouch and glare at people, but Neil wasn’t there, and Neil was what made life interesting.

So instead, he traipsed over to one of the guards standing by the stairs.

“Library,” Andrew said with an obnoxious grin.

The security guard’s eyes narrowed, giving Andrew a full onceover.

“Minyard. Andrew. Have privileges. _Love_ to use them,” Andrew snarked.

The idiot clicked on his walkie talkie and briefly conferred with the powers that be, then finally he heaved a sigh. “Fine. Go.”

Neil was already in the back corner on one of the computers, and Andrew grit his teeth impatiently, waiting for the library moderator to check him in by number and assign him a station.

As luck would have it, it was right next to Neil.

Andrew snagged his pass with a glare that the kid working the desk withered under, then he quietly stalked his way to the back and stood right behind Neil, hand out, ready to smack him, or touch his shoulder, or bend down and whisper in his ear to get him to jump, or–

“Stop hovering,” Neil muttered, without even turning around.

Andrew frowned. “I am not–”

“Yeah. You are.”

He still didn’t move, so Andrew bent over his shoulder, studying Computer #5 and the screen that Neil was focusing so intently on.

“Spanish?”

“For fucks sake, don’t you have anything better to do?” Neil crossed his arms and finally turned on his seat, pinning Andrew with an icy cold glare.

There was the reaction he’d been looking for: the clench of Neil’s jaw, the narrowed eyes, the frustration. He gave a grin, saluted Neil, and then plopped down on the stool right next to him.

“Seriously?” Neil asked incredulously.

Andrew grinned. “I’d go somewhere else but I’d be breaking the rules,” he grinned, flashing the badge with the #6. “It says I have to sit here. Wouldn’t want to get in trouble.”

“Fine,” Neil muttered. “Whatever. I actually need to concentrate, okay?”

“On Spanish.”

“On Spanish,” Neil affirmed.

“Fleeing to South America once you get out, Roger?”

“You know, at some point, you’ll run out of rabbit names. Then you’ll actually have to be clever.”

“Mmm, no, see, then I can move on any variety of prey. Lizards. Rats. Gazelles.”

Neil looked at him blankly. “Lizards?”

“I guess they aren’t so fast. They just shed their tails as a distraction.”

“What…” Brow furrowing, Neil huffed a sigh and turned back to the computer. “I don’t even want to know. Could I just please finish this test before we’re herded back to our rooms?”

“Herded like...wait for it…” Andrew cleared his throat, injecting as much drama as possible into the moment. “Reindeer. They’re fast when they run. Probably faster than rabbits. And then, I can call you Rudolph.”

Neil ignored him, so Andrew turned back to the task at hand and logged into the computer. It took more than a few minutes to load, because prisons didn’t exactly get the latest in technological equipment, but he wasn’t complaining.

Much.

Neil mumbled something next to him and Andrew eyed him for a second, watching the way Neil was completely focused on the screen, watching the way his mouth moved unintentionally around the syllables of the language as he tried to pick out the correct answers.

“Staring,” Neil finally muttered.

“Loudly mumbling gibberish,” Andrew countered.

“Not possible to loudly mumble.”

“I thought you had an incredibly important test that required all of your focus and energy Mr. Bilingual.”

“Tri,” Neil mumbled distractedly, nose wrinkling up as he studied the screen again. “German, French, English. This will be number four.” He froze suddenly, swallowing hard.

Andrew watched the way his throat moved and then tried to pretend he wasn’t watching the way his throat moved and the damn login screen was frozen so he clicked the mouse again, again, again, again, again–

“Maybe don’t tell anyone that?” Neil asked quietly.

Andrew was not going to look at him again because that was proving to be very, very dangerous. “Your secret is safe with me, runaway,” he said.

Fucking finally, the screen cleared, and he clicked into the testing program to complete his lower level math exam that was due today. Neil didn’t say anything else, Andrew didn’t say anything else, the only sounds between them were the alternating clicks as they selected answers.

***

“You look good,” Betsy said. She smiled at him across the desk.

Andrew knew that this was his moment to push papers off, or kick his feet up next to her computer, or lay back in his chair and refuse to speak at all, but today was a good day, and Betsy had chocolate, and fuck it, maybe if he talked, she’d give him two cups instead of one.

“I always look good,” he deadpanned, and shot her a grin.

Betsy smiled back and reached for the Styrofoam cups, pouring hot water in, dumping in a little packet of chocolate, and then handing it across to Andrew who immediately began to stir with his pathetically flimsy plastic spoon.

“How are things?”

“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Wake up, piss, eat breakfast, go to school, ignore school, eat lunch, probably piss again, go to exy, eat dinner, take a shower, piss again, go to sleep. I make time for a shit in there most days too.”

She flicked him a completely cool and unaffected gaze. “Would you like to start with a good part of your day, and a bad part of your day?”

She used to call that “a rose and a thorn” but that was a bullshit metaphor, and he’d told her it was a bullshit metaphor, and now she was a lot more to the point.

He liked that.

“Passed a math test.”

“That’s wonderful, Andrew–”

“It was literally simple addition and subtraction. I could have passed it when I was six.”

“Okay, well I’m still proud of you for putting in the effort.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

She waited expectantly, knowing he’d fill the space, given enough time. Andrew sipped at his hot chocolate, then swallowed around a ball of gritty, undissolved powder. “Neil gets to take Spanish.”

Her head cocked ever so slightly. She made no other movement, but Andrew knew her well enough to know he’d surprised her with that. Usually, surprising Betsy was a game for him, one that was very, very hard to win. He’d have grinned, but he’d surprised himself too.

“Does he enjoy language?” She asked him.

Andrew chewed on his lower lip. “I guess.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Alright. Is there a reason that Neil taking Spanish is bad part of today?”

“I didn’t say it was.”

She gave him a smile and sipped her own cocoa out of a bright pink and purple polka dot mug. “You didn’t. But we were starting with a good and a bad, and you’d already given me a good.”

Once upon a time, she’d have said something like that and Andrew would have closed up, put up every wall he had, grit his teeth and refused to say another word. He knew her better now. He knew that she had a very firm outline on how each session would unfold, and he knew that she did it this way specifically because he needed those barriers, he needed to know what came next, what might happen, what was expected of him.

Andrew had been through therapists faster than foster families, and that was saying a lot. Betsy was someone who he didn’t yet fully trust, but he could almost imagine getting there. Sometimes he didn’t like playing by her rules, but he appreciated that there were rules at all.

“Fine,” he said around another mouthful of chocolate. “It surprised me. Not bad, I guess. Just…”

“Surprising,” she finished for him, setting her mug down and pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Did you want to take a language?”

“I didn’t know it was even an option.”

“Did you ask?”

He grit his teeth. Andrew didn’t care enough to ask, but there was still a niggling tendril of doubt that was snaking through his insides.

“I don’t care,” he said, but that felt wrong.

“That’s fine if you aren’t interested. What language is Neil studying?”

“Spanish.”

“Useful!”

“I guess.”

“If you had to pick another language, what would you study?”

Frowning, Andrew finished off the rest of his drink. “Why?”

“Just for fun!”

“I wouldn’t.”

“What if you wanted to pick a new place to travel. Anywhere in the world. Where would you choose?”

Andrew froze. He didn’t...he didn’t know. He didn’t want to go anywhere. He didn’t want to be here, but he didn’t want to be wherever there was, and he didn’t want to go home, but he also didn’t know what home was supposed to be. That tendril of doubt grew until it lashed around his insides, pulling tighter and tighter and tighter. He swallowed, then looked down to his lap, where one hand was wrapped around his other wrist, fingernail pressing into skin as hard as he could.

It wasn’t enough pain to do anything. Not enough to center him, not enough to shock him out of whatever _this_ was.

“Andrew?” Betsy prodded. “That question upset you.”

“No,” he said. He forced his hands up to her desk where she could see them and where he could see them and where he wouldn’t be so tempted to pick at scabs.

“What were you thinking about?”

“Rabbits.” It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself, and he knew that she wouldn’t see past the non sequitur, but his cheeks still grew hot.

“Andrew,” she said quieter.

“I don’t know.”

She didn’t say anything, but the crease in her brow grew ever so slightly, and Andrew knew she was disappointed. Just like that, his good mood was dissolving between his fingertips, floating away in little puffs of cloud. He didn’t know how to make it right.

“I’d like to turn back to Neil for a minute,” she said.

 _Neil **is** rabbits_, he wanted to say. _Neil is all I can think about and I hate him, I hate him, I hate him._

Instead, he just looked back down at his lap.

“I’ve been thinking about your last roommate. I know we talked a little bit about him a few sessions ago. Just him moving out. And you having some space.”

Andrew did not like where this conversation was going. “Can I have more hot chocolate,” he muttered.

“Let’s get through some of this, and then of course!”

She was bribing him like a four year old and he hated that it was about to fucking work.

“You were close,” Betsy said.

“No.”

“Alright, that’s fine,” she turned and flipped the heat back on for the kettle. “Not close. But there were boundaries that were crossed.”

He hated when she did this–paused after every sentence, waiting for him to fill in the details. She already knew all the fucking details. He glared at his lap as hard as he could and took a deep breath. “It was just an experiment.”

“Was it?”

Andrew’s fingers dug into his thighs. “Yeah.”

“Alright. Experiment aside, how did it feel? To kiss him?”

Five minutes ago, he’d been in a good mood. Nothing could stop him. Nothing could get in his fucking way. Andrew was very much regretting the choice to walk in here with a smile on his face and not push her computer of the fucking desk. “I’m not talking about that.”

“We’ve covered it before, Andrew. It isn’t anything new.”

“Then you don’t need to hear it again.”

“You hit him. Broke his nose, I think? Just like with Neil.”

He couldn’t breathe. He chewed down on his lower lip hard enough to taste blood while his traitor brain shrieked _danger danger danger._

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Betsy look down at the papers before her–papers from his file, papers detailing things he never should have said, things he never should have told her about.

“I wish they wouldn’t use solitary as punishment,” she said quietly. “I still don’t think it was fair.”

“It was more than fair,” Andrew growled. “I broke his nose, fractured his arm in three places, cracked a rib, and bruised a kidney. He was sent to the hospital. The outside hospital. He didn’t come back for three weeks. And I’d do it again.”

“Those are very specific details, Andrew–”

“I remember everything,” he said bitterly. “You know that.”

“And why did you do those things?”

His fingers clenched around his thighs again, biting into fabric. “I’m a repeat offender with anger issues and violent tendencies. It’s in my file. Look it up.”

“I don’t think that’s true, and I don’t think _you_ think that’s true.”

“It’s fucking true,” he growled.

The warming plate beeped and she reached across the desk for his cup, then carefully refilled it with hot water. He listened to the sound of the paper tear as she poured the hot chocolate mix in, listened to the sound of her stirring with another plastic spoon. He didn’t look up–not even when she finally pushed the cup back to him.

“You have rules,” she said. “Everyone has rules. Everyone has boundaries. And even if it was an experiment, he didn’t have a right to break them.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, and it wasn’t ever going to be fine. They’d kissed because Andrew wanted to, they’d kissed again because Andrew wanted to, he had rules, he said don’t touch, he said it, he’d _said_ it–

No one ever listened, and everything always went to shit.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You shouldn’t have,” she agreed. “But he should have respected your boundaries.”

The silence grew between them–wounded and horrible. “It’s fine,” Andrew said, because he didn’t know what else to say, because everything was raw, every nerve felt flayed from his body, every movement he made was a spark of electricity that burned. Set phasers to kill, do not pass go, do not collect $200, do not look up at a therapist who understands you better than yourself, do not think about rabbits and how fast they run.

“It’s not fine, Andrew.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he bit out. “You think this is like Neil? You think I want to kiss him too? You think it wasn’t just an experiment, I wasn’t just an asshole, everything will be all flowery and pretty and perfect if only I open myself up and let love in?” He angrily snagged his hard-earned second cup of hot chocolate and drained it in one go, then threw it as hard as he could at the trashcan. “Fuck that. I hate him. It was an experiment. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place. It was fucked up, I fucked up, Neil is nothing, I hate him, and fuck you for pulling him into this like it’s even remotely related. Fuck you.”

She’d offered him a bribe like a four-year-old, and now he was throwing a tantrum like a four-year-old, and wasn’t that all just fucking fantastic.

She watched him, eyebrows raised, and just reached for her mug like absolutely nothing was wrong. “Is it not? Remotely related?”

“Fuck you,” he muttered again. “It’s not.”

“Okay.”

She watched him for a few more moments in silence, then started up some one sided conversation about Japan and how she’d always wanted to visit, and how Japanese was the sort of language that would probably take a lot more work than she was willing to give, but didn’t it sound beautiful anyway?

She didn’t bring up Neil, but all Andrew could think about was the way his lips wrapped around Spanish words, rounding out the vowels, biting at the consonants, icy blue eyes staring at the computer screen like it held the answers to the universe.

***

Andrew tried to chase remnants of the good mood he’d started with all the way to the cell. Neil was back to pacing the room, this time, with a book of Shakespeare held out in front of him. He didn’t pause as Andrew walked in the door, just kept going his stupid little seven steps out, seven steps back, mouthing lines from King Lear.

He looked like an idiot.

Andrew told him so.

Neil didn’t even flinch, just held up a finger and kept going, brow wrinkling for a second, then smoothing out again as he turned and walked back towards the dressers.

It took another minute before he dog eared the page, then tossed it over to his bed and leaned against the wall, arms crossed in front of him. “Yeah?”

“Nothing.”

“Clearly not nothing. Stop staring at me.”

Andrew sat down on his bed and picked up the battered copy of the play, frowning as he flipped through the pages. Shakespeare sucked. He hated it. It made no sense, it was all ridiculous frilly words with a shit ton of dramatics wrapped up in a nice little box that only assholes enjoyed. “Why?” he finally asked.

Neil looked at him like he’d grown a third head. “Uh...English. You know. The class you’re in? We have to present a report on an act from a Shakespearean play. Library only has Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, and King Lear.”

Andrew threw the book at his head and laughed when Neil ducked. “No one does that shit. No one does assignments, no one does tests, no one gives a fuck.”

“You did.”

“I…” Andrew scowled, wishing he had another book to throw at Neil’s head.

“You took a math test. This morning. So you do the work.”

“Sometimes,” Andrew finally gave in. “But I’m not getting up in front of the class for a presentation. I could give two shits about Shakespeare.”

Shrugging, Neil knelt down and picked up the worn and bent copy, then thumbed through to where he dog-eared the page. “You’d make a good Goneril.” He grinned, like it was all a hilarious joke, then turned back down to the book and started pacing the room again. Every time he got confused, his nose would wrinkle for a second and he’d start chewing at the side of his mouth. Then he’d pick back up again, mouth sometimes moving in silent speech, sometimes not.

Andrew pulled himself up into his bed, pushed himself back against the wall and didn’t keep watching.

Not even a little.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone in this fandom is making me so unbelievably happy 😭  
> Thank you all so much for sticking with this story and reading! And thank you for the wonderful comments which make me the happiest person on the planet!
> 
> Chapter 11:  
> Andrew and Neil...sitting in a tree...not k-i-s-s-i-n-g-ing. BUT WE ARE GETTING CLOSER I SWEAR. They just need to be little bundles of drama for a little while longer. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy <3

Neil played his first Exy game the next Friday. They were split up into teams by Coach Beltran, marched onto the court, and then locked in to flail wildly and beat the crap out of each other for the enjoyment of the rest of the prison.

Neil loved every minute of it.

He’d been stuck on the team with the yellow mesh jerseys, Andrew was placed on the team without, and for a glory filled forty minute half, he was able to push past the insanely weak defensive team and pummel shot after shot on a goal.

For his part, Andrew had apparently decided that Neil was well worth expending effort on, so he blocked every effort with a feral gleam in his eyes. The world narrowed down to just the two of them, and at minute 36, when Neil finally sank a ball in the back corner of the net, he grinned with exhaustion and gave Andrew a little wave.

“Not happening again, Josten,” Andrew snarled, sounding almost as tired.

Neil didn’t respond, just threw himself right back in and kept on trying, until his arms burned so badly he could barely hold onto his racquet. At the half, Beltran blew his whistle, the boys filed off the court, and they took a fifteen minute break to get water and listen to a run down of everything problem that had happened on the court.

There were a lot.

The next half, he subbed both Neil and Andrew out for two kids who were absolute disasters and Neil ended up on the bleachers, teeth grit in frustration and knee jiggling like crazy, itching to get back in there and keep going.

“Calm down, junkie,” Andrew muttered next to him.

Neil threw him a dirty look then fixed his eyes back on the court where the new striker for team yellow missed catching the ball by a mile. “I can play better than that,” he hissed.

The striker managed to chase the ball down and take a shot on the goal which lit up red a second later as the ball sank in, past a goalie who had barely tried to move for it at all.

“At least he can score,” Andrew said.

“Oh, fuck you, that’s–”

“Relax Bugs. I know. It’s much harder to get past my level of talent. Maybe if you practice lots and lots like a good little athlete, some day, you’ll stand a chance!”

Unable to control the anger bleeding through his skin, Neil gripped at the bleachers with his hands, then winced at the sharp ache that traveled up his muscles. Andrew was right. He was talented, and he was also better than Neil, and it was more than a little frustrating.

Neil wasn’t supposed to be a striker. He’d grown up playing backliner, and then he’d been yanked from any chance at Exy at all by his mom. He had years of catching up to do, and years of unlearning backliner tactics and habits that were all but useless for a striker position, and playing against a team of juvenile delinquents who could barely tell up from down wasn’t exactly a prime place for improvement.

Obviously Andrew was ahead.

Didn’t make him feel any better.

“Planning on going pro?” Andrew snarked next to him, as if hearing his thoughts. “Want to make a career out of it when you get out of here? Practice makes perfect, I hear."

“I’m trying to watch the game,” Neil muttered.

“Do, or do not. There is no try.”

“Andrew, come on–”

The striker scored another point and suddenly the boys in the stands were yelling, whooping, stomping, and the entire hangar devolved into chaos as Team Yellow took the lead.

It made no sense. The game was terrible! All of the plays Beltran had tried to cram through their heads were worthless because no one could figure out how to execute them in the slightest. Half of the game was just an excuse for a brawl. And now that Neil and Andrew were out, goals were being scored left and right. That wasn’t exciting. That was pathetic.

Andrew just sat next to him, watching with an apathetic smile.

“Why?” escaped Neil’s mouth before he could stop it. Andrew’s eyebrow rose as he looked over, and Neil just shrugged miserably. “What’s the point? Why? Why do we do this? Why do I care? Why _don’t_ you care?”

“A little early in the day for a meltdown, isn’t it?”

Glaring, Neil worried his lower lip with his teeth, then heaved a sigh. “I don’t know. This is just pathetic. Worthless. There is no point.”

“I am offended, rabbit.” Andrew’s grin only grew bigger. “You wound me. I did all that work to get you a spot on this incredibly passionate, inspired, and skilled team, and now you don’t even want to be here?”

“It’s not...fuck.” Neil kicked at the ground in front of him as the bleachers roared to life again at another Yellow goal. “Whatever. You did all that on your own accord. I didn’t ask. Clearly you get some sort of ridiculous entertainment out of it. Whatever.”

“Do I?” Andrew leaned close, close enough that their noses almost brushed, close enough that Neil could feel Andrew’s breath puff against his own.

Andrew blinked, then drew back suddenly and gave a weird little laugh. “Whatever, Neil. Play, don’t play. I don’t care.”

His voice was stilted and odd, and Neil watched him for a long moment, trying to figure out what he’d said, trying to parse Andrew’s words for sarcasm, or mockery, trying to figure out why he’d called him Neil.

Not rabbit.

Not Josten.

_Neil._

***

The sound of the water beat heavily at Neil’s feet as he rushed through the shower after the match. The others were all chatting and yelling all around him, each voice louder than the next, each fighting for dominance in the small space.

Someone banged hard on the wall to his left and Neil jumped, breath catching in his throat for just a second. He shook his head a little and hurried up, scrubbing his skin raw as fast as he could before pulling on his sweats–damp from sitting in the stall with him. The other boys were all still standing under the water when Neil stepped out from his stall, so he carefully tossed his towel into the bin by the door, then lined up against the wall to wait.

One of the security guards was standing there, arms crossed and a bored look on his face. He gave Neil an appraising once over, then shrugged and went back to standing.

Andrew emerged shortly after, wearing his sweatshirt over his sweatpants like usual despite the awful heat and humidity. Neil was going to ask him about that one of these days, and he filed the question away with the dozens of others that he’d been thinking of, storing it to spring on Andrew when he was least expecting.

It didn’t really seem fair, this question game, but Andrew was the one who started it, and Andrew was an asshole, and so the nagging guilt beneath his skin didn’t cut too deeply.

Andrew stepped up next to him and shot him a grin, then reached up and ruffled Neil’s hair.

“No touching,” the guard barked.

“Red,” Andrew commented drily, easily dropping his hand back to his side.

Neil sucked in a breath and held it. Everything fuzzed over. He blinked and the room was blurry, he bit his inner cheek as hard as he could and tried to ignore the way the entire room caved in around him.

“Breathe,” Andrew scoffed next to him. Then, “I have my next question.”

Neil let go, all of the air leaving his body in a shuddering, awful sound.

Andrew didn’t say anything else, just crossed his arms, kicked a knee up and propped his foot against the wall. He closed his eyes, clearly unimpressed by the damage a single word from his mouth had done to Neil.

Within a minute, the bell rang and the showers cut off. There was a significant amount of moaning and groaning from the rest of the team, but they all got changed back into their prison issue uniform and lined up behind Andrew and Neil.

Then the guard marched them back to the cafeteria for dinner.

“So?” Andrew asked, as soon as Neil sat down across from him with a platter of lumpy looking spaghetti.

Neil shoveled a mouthful in and managed to chew around the slimy noodles without gagging. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it.

“I assume it wasn’t a fashion statement,” Andrew continued wryly.

“Brown hair is all the rage,” Neil returned. It was a pathetic attempt at humor, and it just made him feel even worse. He swallowed around another mouthful and resisted the urge to reach up and tug at his hair.

“How sad for you that the salon of this stunning facility isn’t full service.”

Neil swallowed hard. “I don’t know what to do,” he finally admitted quietly, shoving at the disgusting mess on his tray and carving patterns into the sauce with his spork.

“I’m not your therapist.”

“You asked,” Neil hissed, suddenly looking up. Andrew was watching him steadily, eyes still glimmering wickedly, but he wasn’t grinning. He looked more serious than Neil had ever seen him.

“I asked for the why. Not for the buried trauma.”

“But that’s what you want, isn’t it? You want the details. You want the _everything._ You want to watch me break because it amuses you. You think it’s funny.” Even as he said it, he watched Andrew for any sign of emotion, but there was none.

Neil swallowed down the sickening realization that that wasn’t all Andrew wanted anymore. Maybe he’d never wanted it in the first place.

“How heartless of me,” Andrew deadpanned.

“Fuck,” Neil breathed out, then finally gave in, pushed his tray to the side, and buried his head in his arms, fingers tangling in his hair and pulling. “It’s been black. It’s been blond. It’s been brown, it’s been ash blond, it’s been chocolate brown, it’s been every fucking shade of drugstore dye but red.”

“Fancy.”

“Fuck you, you wanted to know. They’ll find me if it's red. They’ll come here, and they’ll kill me. And they’ll probably kill you because you know who I am, and they’ll probably kill Bryan, and Dobson, and whoever else has come into contact with me even the slightest.”

Andrew snorted.

He fucking snorted. Neil pushed himself off his arms and mustered every ounce of energy he had into glaring pure ice. “It’s not funny. It’s true.”

“You are very dramatic. So sad there is only an exy team here and not a theater club. Oh how the stage would love you.”

“I told you–” Neil cut himself off with a hiss, then forced his head back down. “I’m not talking about it here.”

“Well, lucky for me, I get mopey ol’ you all alone for the rest of the evening. Can’t wait.”

“You asked,” Neil mumbled again, wishing more than anything he could stop the raw despair from leaking out. “You fucking asked.”

Andrew didn’t respond, just reached across and pulled Neil’s tray to him, then dumped Neil’s picked apart leftovers onto his own plate and began devouring it all.

***

The schedule outside their room had been switched for the weekend by the time they got back, and Neil paused just long enough to read that Andrew had visitation again on Saturday, and he had nothing.

Nothing was good. Nothing meant more library time if he could sneak it, which meant more school, which was going to be absolutely invaluable for the Spanish alone. Maybe he could head South. His mom had a stash in Arizona, maybe if he went towards there, picked up cash, then headed right across the border and kept going until he couldn’t anymore– Andrew’s arm came down over his shoulder, finger smacking into the blank schedule. “Neil has...nothing. That’s right. Nothing. We’ve all seen the schedule, could you move now?”

“In,” the security guard ordered, seconding Andrew.

The door closed behind them with a resounding thump, and Neil looked hopelessly at his bed, sheets still bunched together from this morning, and his dresser which still held the worn copy of Shakespeare but nothing else.

He didn’t want to read more Shakespeare.

He’d already caught up on all of his math.

He could throw himself into bed and pull the covers over his head and hope that Andrew didn’t actually want to continue the conversation, but at the same time, he found himself wanting to talk. The curling, bleak despair was threatening to overwhelm him and pull him under, and Neil very much didn’t want to be alone. His mom was gone, he was trapped, he had nowhere to run, they were going to find him, they were going to kill him, and Andrew fucking Minyard should absolutely not be a lighthouse steering away from the rocks, but here he was.

“Is she nice?” he found himself asking.

Andrew kicked off his tennis shoes then leaned against the door, staring Neil down. “Who.”

“Your mom.”

“Already told you, I don’t have a mom.”

“You have visitation though. Someone comes to visit you. Are they nice?”

“Ah ah,” he said, eyes narrowing. “We haven’t finished discussing _my_ question yet. I make the rules.”

Neil glared at him.

“Hair.”

Neil sucked down a breath, then charged ahead. “I told you. It’s red. It’s been dyed because we were on the run, but it’s naturally red. It’s growing in that way now. Anything else, your royal highness?”

“It looks ridiculous.”

Neil sank down to the ground and leaned his back up against his bed. His shoes were still on, and he picked at one of plastic ends of the grimy laces, pulling it apart. “Thanks.”

“My foster parents are fine,” Andrew said.

Looking up, Neil watched Andrew rub at the wrist cuff of his sweatshirt just a minute, then he crossed his arms again.

“That’s all?”

“You asked if my mom was nice. Don’t know what else you want. She’s not my mom, but she’s fine. She likes to bake. Sometimes I would bake with her. She bought me whatever I needed. I had my own room. Her husband worked a lot so sometimes it was just us in the house. Sometimes it wasn’t.” His nose wrinkled at that, mouth pulling into something that almost looked like a frown, then he shook it from his face. “She was fine.”

“Oh. Okay.” Neil looked back down at his shoe again. That wasn’t the question he wanted to ask, and he wished more than anything that he could stop fixating on Andrew, on Andrew’s family, on the idea of family at all, on the desperate yearning in his chest that just wanted to know what it felt like to be cared for.

With his mom, love was the sting of her palm against his face when he didn’t move fast enough. It was the pain of a needle threading through his skin. It was the burn of whiskey that she allowed him to have, only to dull the pain just enough so that he wouldn’t scream.

“Who’s coming for you?”

Andrew’s voice barely broke through the memories, and Neil had to force his head back up to look him in the eyes. “I told you. My dad siphoned a lot of money from the mob.” He felt sick. Bile was rising in his throat and he forced it back down. He hated how much he was giving away, but he didn’t have anywhere else to go, and he didn’t have anyone else to turn to, and he was lonely.

He was so fucking lonely.

“Let’s see,” Andrew mused. “So far, we have a dead father who stole millions, a dead mother who was an accessory, and a kid who ran and somehow has managed to stay off the grid for fuck knows how long. Something isn’t adding up.” His eyes flashed and he sank down the wall then pulled his knees in, studying Neil intently. “Many, many somethings.”

“I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“How about you talk, and I’ll tell you when to stop.”

“His associates are trying to find me. I don’t have anything else to offer. Nothing. That’s it. That’s the most truth I’ve ever given anyone and I can’t give you anything else.”

“Try me.”

“I can’t, Andrew.”

“You already told me they’d kill me just for knowing who you are.” He shrugged, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “Nothing more dangerous than that. Try me.”

Neil wanted to.

He wanted to so badly it burned inside of him. His father had left evidence of his brutality all over his body, but the secrets he’d buried within himself were sharpened knives, destroying his insides and leaving nothing but a bloody mess in their wake. “He’s not dead,” Neil whispered. “My father…”his heart was pounding in his ears so loudly he couldn’t hear anything else. “My father...he’s not dead.” His vision hollowed out, everything going black but his shoelace, his dirty shoelace, the plastic peeling, peeling, peeling–

“Breathe,” Andrew scoffed from somewhere in the room. “Calm down.”

 _I can’t_ Neil wanted to say, but he couldn’t get a word out around the thick welling of panic that crept up his throat and leaked out of his nostrils and choked him from the inside out and–

Andrew kicked him.

It wasn’t hard. He’d just scooted forward across the small room and kicked at Neil’s leg, jarring it ever so slightly off course from normal. But it was enough for Neil to suck in a breath, and then another. He hunched over, burying his head in his lap and pulling at his hair as hard as he could and breathing.

Breathing.

Counting to ten.

Counting to twenty.

Counting to thirty in English, and German, and French, and _Spanish_.

Andrew waited the whole time, not saying another word.

Neil wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, how long Andrew watched him shatter apart and then pull himself together again, trying to patch every crack with shitty scotch tape. Finally, he was able to push himself back up again, blinking around the fuzziness that came after a panic attack. Everything felt far away. Nothing could hurt him. Nothing mattered. He was nothing. Nothing.

Nothing.

“What drugs did Bee give you?” Andrew finally asked.

Neil tried to swallow, but the panic that had swollen in his throat earlier had left nothing but dust in its wake. “What?”

“Drugs. Betsy. You should probably tell her that whatever crap cocktail they put you on isn’t doing shit.”

Closing his eyes, Neil tilted his head back until his neck rested on the mattress edge. “I don’t know. I don’t take them. Hide ‘em behind my teeth then spit them out.”

There was a short silence. Then Andrew huffed a bark of a laugh. “Interesting.”

“Two questions,” Neil murmured. “You asked two.”

“Soon to be three,” Andrew responded. “I’m going to want more on your little parental revelation there in a moment. But fair is fair is fair. Your turn.”

He didn’t know. There were so many possibilities he’d filed away over the weeks but everything was out of reach now, locked behind a foggy door inside his brain that he couldn’t quite slip through. Neil forced his head back up and opened his eyes.

Andrew hadn’t moved at all and was still watching him with all the intensity of a feral cat.

“Roommate,” Neil finally said.

There was a slight tightening around Andrew’s eyes, but nothing else at all. “Not a question.”

“The other guys said you killed him. The one before me. What actually happened?”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “All of the possibilities, and you just want gossip.”

“No. I want truth.”

“Why?”

Neil swallowed again and it was slightly easier this time. His heartbeat was fading in his ears, his hands weren’t shaking anymore. “Maybe I want to make sure you don’t kill me too. The questions game had no stipulations on my end. You asked, I answered. Stop deflecting.”

Andrew’s eyebrows rose, and his hand went back to his wrist, fingers slipping under the cuff and scratching, scratching scratching. “I kissed him,” he finally said.

Neil blinked. “That’s…” He blinked again, nose wrinkling as utter confusion and anger roared to life inside of him. “That’s not fair.”

“What?”

“I didn’t lie to you. I played your game, and I didn’t lie.”

Andrew’s face hardened, eyes narrowing and jaw tightening. “I don’t lie.”

“Then…” Neil swallowed again and tried to make sense of it, but he couldn’t manage to put the pieces together. “Everyone is scared of you.”

“With reason.”

“Why?”

Andrew didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t waver at all, just stared directly at Neil, eyes deadly shards of gold. “I kissed him. He kissed me back. I told him not to touch me. He apparently didn’t have functioning ears, because he didn’t listen. I beat the shit out of him and put him in the hospital for weeks. I believe we’ve already covered this but just in case your ears are also fucked, I. Do. Not. Like. To. Be. Touched.”

“But–”

“That’s all,” Andrew said, pushing himself up to his feet. “We’re done now. You’ll have to hold onto your Daddy issues for another day.” Then he gave his stupid little salute and crawled up to the top bunk.

Neil tilted his head back up and watched the way the mattress sagged as Andrew flopped down on top of it. _I kissed him_ , played loops in his brain, _I kissed him, I kissed him, I kissed him._

It didn’t make any sense.

Closing his eyes, Neil listened to the toilet next to him that had started to run again, and the muted sounds of the other boys in the cell block that were soaking through their walls. Over it all, he could hear the whispered sound of Andrew breathing above him–every inhalation steady, tight, and controlled.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! 
> 
> First off, thank you again for all of your amazing support. It means so much to me, I can't even express my feelings without a giant sa;lkdgjsal;gkjsalkgjas keyboard smash. 
> 
> Second off: ANDREW POV, THIS NOT A DRILL, HE IS HAVING FEELINGS
> 
> I am kind of excited for this chapter. Really hope you enjoy it. Thank you all so much for sticking with me on this fic! Please come yell at me on Twitter or Tumblr because I like to talk. A lot. A lot a lot. <3 <3

Cass was sitting at their same table as they led him out for visitation. Her hair was down today–greying slightly at her temples but curling around her ears–there was no Drake in sight, she was smiling, and the gaping wound inside of Andrew ripped even further as she jumped up to give him a hug.

“Andrew! I miss you so much,” Cass murmured against his cheek.

He tried not to stiffen.

There was a technique the police used after they’d arrested him. They’d ask a question, then would stare straight at him and wait, wait, wait, without saying anything at all. It was uncomfortable, and they knew it was uncomfortable, and Andrew knew they were just biding time until he broke down and spoke.

He never did.

What the cops didn’t realize was that silence was the only tool Andrew had in his arsenal, and he had gotten very, _very_ good at weaponizing it.

Now, as Cass sat down in front of him, eyes watery with tears and hands outstretched to take his, he was putting it to use again.

“I miss you, sweetheart,” she repeated, reaching even further forward.

Andrew just sat back, crossed his arms, and watched the table.

With a shaky little laugh, she finally gave up and pulled back. “Drake will try to come next time again,” she said. She clasped her hands together and started twisting her wedding band around her finger, over and over. “He can’t take too much time off right now, but I know he really appreciated seeing you last weekend.”

Andrew watched the table.

“I settled on green for your room! It’s kind of a mossy, forest color. I think it looks really nice, Andrew. If you don’t like it, we can always choose something else!”

Andrew watched the table.

“I so wish they would let me bring you cookies, or brownies, or something. I keep baking but there is no one home to eat it but me.”

Andrew watched the table.

She was trying to sound cheerful, but her voice was starting to waver, and he knew how uncomfortable he was making her, and he knew how _sad_ he was making her and that hurt. It hurt even more than he thought it would hurt. Andrew dropped his hands to his lap and picked at the scabs on his swollen knuckles.

“How is your roommate? Is he here?” She sat back and scanned the room quickly, before turning back to him. “I hope he has family nearby who can visit. It must be so lonely.”

Andrew watched the table.

She tried. She tried and she tried and she tried, but Andrew refused to say a single word. Finally, the bell rang. Cass was opening crying now, and she stood, and he stood, and she pulled him into a hug, and he did everything in his power not to sink into that warmth, and then she stepped away again.

“I miss you so much, Andrew. Please say something.”

Andrew watched at the table.

Cass pressed her hands to her mouth and gave a horrible sob as she was led back out of the room.

Sometimes he forgot how much silence could hurt him too.

***

Neil took one look at Andrew when he returned, then turned his head back to whatever book he was reading. He didn’t ask what was wrong, he didn’t ask if Andrew was okay, he didn’t say anything at all.

There was a tangled mess of _want_ and _hate_ and _desire_ and _anger_ that warred in Andrew’s chest but he didn’t know what to do about any of it. He climbed up to his bed, threw himself down, and pretended like he was sleeping.

Neil ignored him.

Neil didn’t talk to him the rest of the weekend.

Andrew was grateful.

***

“I’d like to talk about your brother.”

Betsy was all fuzzy cheer today with her sparkly rainbow glasses, and her rainbow feather earrings, and a thickly woven sweater with a rainbow colored llama. Sometimes Andrew wondered if she had a person at home, if that person loved her, if that person let her walk out the door looking like...whatever this was.

Andrew poked at a dehydrated marshmallow with his pointer finger and watched as it slowly skimmed across the powdery hot chocolate in his cup. “I don’t.”

“Well, we need to. You have a phone call scheduled this week with your Uncle and I know it will come up. So I’d like it if we started thinking about that a little bit now.”

 _Before you have a total meltdown_ , was how Andrew would have chosen to finish that sentence, but Betsy was far more professional than that. “I don’t want to talk to Luther,” he said.

“Okay. Why?”

Gritting his teeth, Andrew poked harder at the marshmallow.

It sunk beneath the surface.

“Because I don’t want to. I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me. End of story.”

“Understandable,” she said, watching him somberly. “Do you know what he might want to talk about?”

Andrew shot her a wary look. There was a high chance she already knew. Any phone calls coming into the detention center had to be scheduled in advance, and approved based on subject matter. They’d listen in too, once he was actually on the phone, because he was a criminal and criminals didn’t deserve things like respect or privacy.

“I don’t know,” he finally said.

“He would like to schedule a time for him and your brother to come out for a visit. How would you feel about that?”

“No.”

“Okay.” She gave him an easy little smile, like _No_ was a perfectly reasonable answer, like he had any choice in the matter at all. “I thought you might feel that way. It’s always incredibly frustrating for me when someone changes plans without my knowledge. Makes me feel helpless. That is a really big request for him to ask of you when you’ve so far had minimal contact. ”

She was doing that thing again where she was agreeing with everything Andrew was thinking before he ever said it in the first place. Andrew scowled. “So?” he finally asked. “Now’s the part where you convince me to change my mind, right?”

“I’m not going to convince you to do anything. They will put you on the phone with him, it’s already been scheduled, but it is absolutely up to you whether or not you have that conversation, or any conversation at all.”

“Fuck him,” Andrew said.

Betsy took a sip of her hot chocolate. “How did it feel when you learned about Aaron?”

“Fucking fantastic.”

“Andrew.”

He tightened one hand to a fist in his lap and watched his knuckles turn white. One of the scabs he’d been worrying at all weekend tore free again, and a little trickle of blood welled up. “I don’t know what you want me to say. How did it feel when I learned that I had a twin...fuck. What do you want me to say? Like shit? Yeah. It did. Like I was even more of a fuck-up? Yeah, it did. Like suddenly everything made sense because oh, I’d been missing half of myself for all my life? No. It didn’t. Like I hated him? Yeah. I did. I do.”

She didn’t say anything, just watched him from behind her dumb fucking glasses.

He was getting too emotional. She had already picked up on it, he knew she had. He tried to take a deep breath in and push it all back down again, but raw anger just kept bubbling to the surface. He grabbed his cup and forced himself to take a drink, but the powder stuck in his throat.

“It must have been a very hard choice that your mother made,” she finally said.

Everything blanked. The buzzing in his ears grew so loud he couldn’t hear anything else, the rage took over, he squeezed his hands into fists and drew back, ready to swing, ready to hit, ready to do something but–

He was wet.

There was hot liquid running down his arm and soaking through his pants and dripping all over Betsy’s desk, and Andrew shook himself back to _now_ , blinking wildly.

He’d crushed his cup of cocoa.

Betsy was already mopping it up from her desk, and she quickly grabbed the box of tissues and handed it over. “It’s alright,” she said, like there wasn’t chocolate water underneath her keyboard, and staining the papers on her desk. “It’s alright, Andrew.”

It...Andrew swallowed hard and the buzzing was still there, but fainter, and Aaron had...Aaron had everything...Aaron was...Drake said...Aaron was– “Andrew,” Bee said softly.

He tried to look at her again, but couldn’t quite focus. Every breath he took hurt in his chest, every time he tried to swallow, his throat closed up.

“It would have been hard for her,” she said gently. “But that doesn’t mean it was fair. It was not fair to you at all, and it was hard on you too, and nothing you did, or have done, or will do will _ever_ change the fact that you are allowed to grieve.”

“I hate her,” Andrew murmured. His hand was sticky, and his pants were cold where it had spilled everywhere. Everything felt the funny kind of far away, where things just...didn’t matter as much...where he existed on the edge of everything that was real, but didn’t really _feel_.

Usually he hated that. Usually it terrified him when the apathy took over because it ate away at everything that was him and left him something that didn’t feel human.

Betsy had a term for that. Betsy wanted to talk about it more. Betsy wanted to try new medication for BIPOLAR DISORDER and DISSOCIATIVE TENDENCIES instead of DEPRESSION because DEPRESSION wasn’t a diagnosis she thought was correct. Sometimes he cared, but most of the time he didn’t, because all of it meant that he was _broken_.

Andrew tried soaking up the hot chocolate from his sweatpants, but the tissue was dissolving between his fingers so he just threw it in the trash. “I think I want to see him,” he said. It took him by surprise. The words fell from his mouth before he had time to think them through, and then they were out there, between him and Bee, hovering as something tangible instead of hidden away deep where he couldn’t reach.

“I think he would want to see you too,” she said slowly.

He took another tissue and pressed it against his thigh, weighing every word carefully. “What if I still hate him?”

Betsy smiled at him; a genuine, real, I _’m-so-proud-of-you-for-talking_ smile. “Then that is a valid emotion. I do think you should wait until after meeting to decide how you feel.”

Andrew reached out for the tiny crystal fox on her shelf and carefully brushed the pad of his pointer finger over its ears. They were sharp and prickly. “What if he hates me?” he said quietly.

“Andrew.”

He tried to look at her, but it was too close to feeling again, too close to the hurt that was fighting to get to the surface. He tossed the soggy tissue into the trash and shrugged, then looked down at the ground.

“Your worth will never be reflected in other people’s opinions.”

The hot chocolate had spilled down to the floor also, and there was a damp spot on the grimy grey carpet right next to his shoe. He kicked at the leg of her desk and was rewarded with a hollow clang. So he did it again. And again.

It didn’t phase Betsy one bit. “Would you like another cup of hot chocolate?”

He didn’t, but he nodded anyway, and so she made him one, and the powder didn’t dissolve all the way, and the marshmallows were tiny, dehydrated globs, and he pushed one with his finger again and it sank again, and she smiled at him like he’d made so much progress, but it didn’t feel that way.

It felt like nothing was alright.

It felt like nothing would ever be alright.

***

When he got done with Bee, it was rec time. The sky had opened up and it was pouring rain outside, so everyone was packed into the small room either watching cartoons on the television, or clumped together around the old foosball table. Andrew gave a quick glance around and determined Neil wasn’t with either group.

There was only one other place the rabbit would be, and Andrew almost huffed a laugh at how ridiculous Neil was, but then he’d have to huff another laugh at how ridiculous _he_ was, and all of that would require the sort of emotional range that had been snuffed out of him during therapy.

He trudged over to the door.

Even the security guard was watching the yard from inside the plated glass, but sure enough, Neil was doing laps. His sweats were soaked through, his hair was hanging down in his face, and his sneakers were so muddy they’d never be the same again. Andrew watched him go around once, then around twice, then Andrew pushed open the door and stood under the deluge for all of a second before catching him on the next go around.

Neil’s eyes widened for a moment, but then he grinned and took off even faster, leaving Andrew easily behind.

“Fuck,” Andrew muttered, then pushed faster. He dodged mudpuddles for the first couple laps, but by the third time around, his shoes were just as ruined as Neil’s were and he started stomping in them out of spite. He couldn’t catch Neil. Andrew was running as fast as he could, and his breath was shuddering out of him in horrible, wheezing gasps, but he couldn’t catch up, so he just kept going. Thunder rumbled overhead, but at the very least, he refused to let himself get lapped.

Eventually, Neil pulled up to a halt in the back corner of the yard. When Andrew finally caught up, Neil was looking up at the sky with an open mouth, catching raindrops as they pummeled down from the sky.

“You suck,” Andrew gasped, leaning over his knees and trying to catch his breath. “What the fuck was that?”

Neil shot him a grin. “Fun?” he asked with a stupid little shrug.

“You’re an idiot. There’s a reason everyone else is inside.”

“You aren’t.”

Andrew kicked at the wall. Neil was watching him with those intense blue eyes, and his cheeks were flushed, and he looked like a drowned rat, and Andrew hated the way everything in his chest tightened even further. “Running sucks,” he finally said,

“I didn’t order you out here.” Neil stepped closer, eyebrows raised. He jabbed a finger at Andrew’s chest, but stopped just shy of touching him. “This is on you.”

The sky rumbled again. It was so dark out, and Neil’s hair was so wet, Andrew couldn’t even see the red of his roots. He _could_ see the way the line of Neil’s jaw moved when he swallowed. He could see the raindrops that caught on his eyelashes. He could see how Neil’s bottom lip was chapped and raw from where he chewed on it every time he got nervous.

“So why _are_ you out here?” Neil’s eyes narrowed as he studied Andrew. “You hate me.”

“I know.”

“So why?”

“I…” Andrew’s cheeks flushed hot and he kicked the wall harder. A clump of mud dislodged from the tread of his sneaker and plopped to the wet ground. “I don’t know.”

“Are you going to hit me again?”

Andrew looked up at him. Neil was watching him, nose wrinkled and eyes curious. “Huh?”

“I don’t know,” he finally said with a shrug. “You got that intense, wild look for a second. Like the last time you hit me.”

Andrew’s fists clenched at his sides and suddenly he did want hit him, but he also wanted to kiss him, and he also wanted to see if he kissed back, and–

This was a dangerous game. Andrew grit his teeth together and stepped back. “Just needed to move,” he growled, forcing the words out even though they meant nothing at all.

Neil pushed his hair out of his eyes, but the rain kept pouring down anyway. He was watching Andrew carefully, but he wasn’t scared. Just curious. “My mom never let me go running. It wasn’t safe to go out alone. So I paced our apartments or houses or hotel rooms just like...back and forth so many times that I wore the carpets down. She didn’t like that either.”

Andrew blinked. “Huh?”

“A truth,” Neil said with a small smile. “I owed you one. That day in the gym when I was running laps. You gave me two truths, I only gave one. Now we’re even.” He pushed his hair back again, wincing when water dripped into his eyes. “Go around again?”

This was a dangerous game, and Neil was a dangerous player, and Andrew was a scattered, fraying mess who no longer knew the rules. “Later, Josten,” he said, giving a pathetically wet salute. Then he jogged back to the doors and pushed his way back inside to the chaos of a rec room filled with security guards, and youth advisors, and boys who were so scared of him they wouldn’t even look up. Andrew shook his head hard enough to scatter wet everywhere.

“Minyard!” The security guard at the door barked.

“Whoops,” Andrew said.

Neil went by the window again. Andrew turned away and headed across the room to the tv, leaving dirty, muddy footprints all over the linoleum floor.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **ADDITIONAL CHAPTER WARNINGS**  
>  __  
> -Crass language about a female staff member. (No actions taken, just a conversation between some of the boys on the exy team)
> 
> -The truth for truth game gets very intense towards the end and Andrew gives a couple of sentences about his first abuser. Please tread with caution. Nothing graphic, but disturbing nonetheless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, just thank you guys so much for reading this. The comments have been AMAZING. I can't thank you all enough for the support you've given this fic, it is just an absolute joy to keep writing it knowing that there are people out there reading!
> 
> You all are amazing. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH
> 
> Onto more serious matters: I stuck an additional chapter warning up for this one. Neil and Andrew are starting to play with fire a bit when it comes to the truth game. And Andrew reveals some things that are pretty intense in the end. It's nothing more graphic than the books, but just wanted you all to be aware
> 
> Not sure if I've said this before, but if there are ever tags you think should be added, please just lmk!

“Andrew’s being weird.”

Betsy looked up at him from her desk as Neil sat down and gave him a friendly smile. “Hello, Neil, it’s wonderful to see you today!”

“You say that every day.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true.” Her smile grew, she took a sip from her mug, she gestured towards the hot plate, and when he shook his head no, she set her mug back down again and leaned back in her chair. “You want to talk about Andrew today?”

Neil could feel his cheeks heating up, and he chewed on his bottom lip. “You’re going to make me talk about something. There isn’t much else to talk about. So sure.”

“Alright. What about him has you concerned?”

“I didn’t say I was concerned. I said he was being _weird._ ” He was already regretting opening his mouth in the first place because now she was watching him intently, waiting for him to talk about Andrew, and he had nothing to say but _‘He ran in the rain with me and stared at me and almost looked like he was going to punch me but then he didn’t and now we’re back to not really talking at all and that confuses me and I don’t know what it means’_ which...yeah.

None of that was particularly high on his list of things he wanted to discuss with the person who was _also_ Andrew's shrink, but he’d had another nightmare last night, only this one was worse than the rest, his mother was pinned down on the street and his father pressed a knife into his hand and Romero was pointing a gun at his face, and he clicked the safety off, and Neil was too afraid to die so he stabbed her again and again and again and even when the blood was soaking through his long sleeved shirt and dripping down his face, he kept stabbing because his father told him too, and he was nothing if not obedient, he was good, he was so good–

“Neil?”

Neil squeezed his eyes closed and forced himself away from the dregs of dream that were still wrapped tightly around his heart. He didn’t want to talk about the nightmare, he didn’t want Betsy to _make_ him talk about the nightmare, so he’d opened with Andrew because he thought maybe it would be easier.

It wasn’t.

“He’s just weird,” he finally mumbled.

“Did he threaten you again?”

“No! Fuck.” He fisted his hands in his sweatpants and watched his knuckles turn white with strain. “He’s just watching me all the time.”

“Does that make you nervous?”

“Not really. It’s just weird. You know?”

She made a little humming sound, then pushed her glasses–pink today–further up her nose. “Why do you think he’s staring at you?”

“I don’t know!” Neil huffed in frustration, then pulled a knee to his chest and forced his hands away from worrying at the threadbare fabric. “I have no idea! If I did, I wouldn’t have brought it up!”

“Do you think that you make him nervous?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Don’t _is it_ me. Stop trying to get in my head. It’s ridiculous. He’s perfectly capable of defending himself. I don’t make him nervous.”

“There are other things besides violence that might make a person nervous.”

Neil’s eyes narrowed. He had no clue what she was getting at, and this entire thing had been a bad idea. He should have said nothing. Should have just stared at her for the session. Should have refused to speak at all.

_Except you’ve done that, and it’s lonely, and you’re tired of being lonely, and she’s nice–_

Neil blinked. She was _not_ nice. She was a shrink who made money off of forcing pills down people’s throats.

“I’m perfectly happy to discuss your situation with Andrew if that’s how you’d like to use your session,” she said kindly, “but I’d also love to make a little time to discuss medication today.”

Neil’s mouth pulled to a tight line, but he was also relieved. There it was. Medication talk, because she was a shrink, not because she cared about anything he actually had to say. “Whatever.”

Betsy cocked her head and studied him for a second. “I don’t want you to shut down like that Neil,” she said gently.

Neil didn’t give a fuck what she wanted, but he held back from saying so.

“Alright. Would you like to tell me more about Andrew?”

“No.”

She took that at face value, then pulled his file from the pile on her desk and took a quick look. “It looks like we started on a low dose anti-anxiety medication and we’re far enough in that you should be seeing some help on that front.”

“ _We_ didn’t do anything,” Neil muttered. “You decided I was crazy, and then told them to give me pills.”

Betsy reached across the desk, presumably to take his hand, but Neil leaned backwards out of her reach. “You’re not crazy, Neil. And it will probably take time to work out dosage–”

“Whatever.”

“I know that in our initial discussions, you’d exhibited some anxious tendencies. The movement, the chewing–”

Neil very pointedly forced his teeth off of his lower lip.

“--the nightmares.”

He should have never mentioned them in the first place, but Betsy was very, very good at making him think he wasn’t giving up valuable information, and getting him to talk about shit that he didn’t want to talk about.

“I ’d like to know if they are helping at all–”

“Whatever. You want to give me something else, go for it. I don’t care.”

He didn’t, he really didn’t, because he wasn’t going to swallow a single thing. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know him at all.

“How are your nightmares?”

_His mom is staring at him with her brown Hatford eyes and there’s still just a little life left, just enough for her to mouth Neil at him, and then she’s dead but he’s still stabbing her because he likes the way it feels to push a blade through muscle–_

“Neil?”

Neil’s chest was too tight, and his throat was too dry, and he tried to breathe but it wasn’t working quite right. He chewed down on his lip so hard he tasted blood, and looked towards all the little glass animals because he didn’t trust himself to look at her. “Fine,” he said, proud of himself that he was able to bite out the single syllable without his voice wavering.

“I know you don’t want to talk about them. And that is fine, Neil. You don’t need to give me any specifics. But when I asked just now, you tightened up. Can we talk about why that happened?”

“No.” There was a little cat sitting next to a little fox and both of them had tiny sparkling eyes and sharp angles. Neil wondered if they were sharp enough cut skin. He wondered if he took the fox and he pressed really hard, really, _really_ hard, if the ear might be sharp enough to tear all the way down to muscle.

“I don’t think it would surprise you to hear that a lot of my patients have nightmares. And they can be debilitating. And I would really like to start trying to find some coping methods for when they happen, but we can also talk further about medication that might help you sleep.”

“No,” he bit out. “I don’t need help sleeping.” He couldn’t stomach the idea of being forced to take something that would make him sleep. That would keep him asleep. That wouldn’t allow him to escape when the claws of his father sank into his dreams. That–

He was having trouble breathing again and so he closed his eyes and counted to 20, in Spanish now, because why the fuck not. By the time he counted back down again things were a little less fuzzy.

“What did you do just now?” Betsy asked him, eyes curious.

“Nothing.”

“You were able to relax slightly.”

 _No fucking shit,_ he thought.

She watched him for a long minute, then gave a little smile. “How would you feel about upping the dosage just slightly on the anti-anxiety medication we tried?”

“Fantastic.”

“Neil, I know that you don’t trust me. And I know that that sort of trust takes a very long time to build, and is nothing I can expect having only known you for the last two months. I promise you that I want to help, not hurt.”

She babbled on and on and Neil half listened to her talk about medication strengths, and possible avenues of treatment, and how it can be very hard to see progress early on, but so many people have found relief from anxiety this way, and his knee was jiggling constantly because Lola had been carving things into his skin since he was five, and his Father had been trying to kill him since he was ten, and his father’s men had put a bullet hole through his shoulder when he was thirteen and _those_ were problems.

This? Was just anxiety.

It was just fucking anxiety.

“Would you like to talk about Exy?”

Neil looked up at her, unsure of how much he’d tuned out, and unsure of how long she’d been sitting there waiting for an answer. “Okay,” he finally said. He didn’t, he didn’t want to talk about anything, he hated her because she was a shrink, he hated her because she pretended to care, he hated her because sometimes, it seemed like she really did care, and he wanted that so badly it scared him.

Betsy drank her tea, and Neil mumbled facts and stats and player names and player rankings and everything he knew about the sport for the rest of the session because Exy was safe.

If he closed his eyes, he saw his mother’s broken body, he saw his father’s cleaver, he saw his own hand holding a knife, he saw Andrew standing in the rain.

So he didn’t close his eyes.

***

Neil tried to focus on homework in the hour break he had before Exy practice, but he couldn’t seem to wrap his head around something so trivial as Algebra or Shakespeare when he could still feel his mother’s blood on his skin. When the buzzer finally sounded and they were escorted out of the room and down to the hangar, his entire body was buzzing in anticipation of movement.

Unfortunately, Coach sat them all down on the stands and began a very long and detailed explanation of the upcoming open-to-the-public Exy match.

Neil tried to pay attention. He did, he really did, but he didn’t have family coming to see him–if someone showed up in those stands for him, then it was because they were there to kill him–so the intricacies of who had relatives coming and who was going to get game time were of no interest whatsoever.

Andrew sat beside him staring off into the distance as Coach put together the roster, so Neil nudged him with his foot, garnering a glare of irritation.

“You have family coming?” Neil asked quietly. _Will someone be watching you, will you play harder because they are, will you care more, does someone miss you so much they cry, do you miss them, are you loved, are you loved, are you loved._

Andrew’s eyebrows rose and his glare turned the kind of intense that Neil was suddenly worried that he could read every single thought flitting through Neil’s stupid, stupid brain.

“Yes,” he finally said.

“Oh. Who?”

“Why do you care?”

Neil shrugged. “No reason.” _Because I want someone to watch me, I want to play harder for them, I want to care more, I want to be missed, I want to be loved, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t know what's wrong with me._

Something was pulling loose inside of him. Everytime he swallowed it tore at him a little more with poisonous jagged teeth.

Beltran’s monotonous voice droned on, and Andrew’s nose wrinkled.

Finally he sighed. “Foster parents and foster brother,” he said. “And before you ask, no, I don’t care, no, I don’t love them, and no, I don’t want a part in whatever breakdown you’re currently having.”

Neil had no idea why, but for some reason, Andrew's words were calming. He found himself offering a shaky grin. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Andrew repeated, then turned back to Coach.

When they finally got out on the court, Neil threw himself into practice with every ounce of energy he had. He tore up and down the court, he twisted his body to snag balls from the absolute middle of nowhere, he plowed into players with no regard for anything at all but the desperate need for movement. One one side of the court, Andrew fielded all of his hits on goal, and it wasn’t frustrating, it was brilliant, it was everything Neil needed.

On the other, players were getting more and more frustrated, and more and more violent, trying to get any action at all. Neil was pushing it as hard as he could, daring them to come after him, daring them to hurt him, daring them to make him feel something besides lonely because lonely was devouring him from the inside out.

It was Max who snapped first, came barreling towards him and then smashed a racquet into his head.

Coach started yelling, Max threw his racquet on the ground and backed up, hands in the air, and Neil crumpled to the ground, vision swimming dangerously, but mind finally clear.

He swallowed a mouthful of blood and fought for a second to get his helmet off. “Took you long enough,” he called to Max.

Max’s face turned dangerously dark. “What’dyou say, you fucker? You want more? You’re shit you know that? Fucking piece of shit, you fucking think you own this place, and you don’t, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you–

Two security guards made it on the court and pulled him back, as Coach jogged over to Neil.

“You okay, kid? Shit–”

Neil swallowed more blood and tried to wipe at his nose, but all he managed to do was scrub the mess everywhere. “...’m fine,” he managed to say, stripping off his gloves and tipping his head back. “Just bloody nose.” His head was pounding, but his helmet had done its job. Neil grinned, then pinched his nose between two fingers. “I’m fine.”

“No, you're not,” Coach said. “Off the court. I’ll get a guard to bring you to the medic.”

Someone cat called, and then everyone was doing it, crazed voices echoed off the ceilings. Coach just rolled his eyes.

“I’m really fine–”

“No blood on court. Off. Go.”

Neil stumbled to his feet and tried to walk over to the door but a bunch of the players swarmed him.

“Ask for Nurse Roberts,” Connor said, eyebrows waggling ridiculously.

A few of the boys nodded excitedly. “She’s so fucking hot,” someone said. “Fucking tits, man, I’d fuck her so hard–”

“Hey Coach, I’ll go with him,” another kid called, then made some sort of stupid humping motion.

“Fuck off, Marley,” Coach yelled back.

Everyone kept on him all the way to the benches so Neil just grit his teeth, stripped off his padding and ignored their stupid posturing.

Another guard showed up, Coach blew his whistle and forced the boys back on court, and Neil trudged out of the hangar, sparing a single glance at Andrew who hadn’t moved from the goal, but was watching him right back.

***

It was just a nosebleed.

“I told you so,” he muttered, as Nurse Roberts finished cleaning the dried blood from his skin.

Her eyebrows rose, and she put both hands on his cheeks and held his head still, studying his face. “You’re lucky it wasn’t broken again,” she said. “It’s impressive how straight it healed. I don’t think you’d get that lucky a second time.”

Neil suffered her scrutiny because he had no other choice. When she finally let go again and stepped over to the desk computer, he snuck a glance over.

She was wearing a lab coat. Underneath that, she had on a blue sweater that looked like a sweater, and black pants that looked like pants. She had red hair. And glasses. And had a friendly smile, but so did Betsy, and he didn’t trust Betsy one bit, so he wasn’t planning on trusting this nurse either.

Finally giving up on trying to figure out what was so exciting about her to cause the hangar chaos, Neil stared straight ahead at the poster on the wall that gave an uninspired run down on the benefits of handwashing until she gave him the go ahead and he was led back down to his room.

Andrew was sitting on his bunk when Neil walked in, and his eyebrows rose as soon as the door closed again.

“Nice face.”

Sighing, Neil walked over to the small mirror and bent over the sink, inspecting the damage. His left eye was swollen, greenish bruising spattered across the bridge of his nose, and there was dried blood still smeared around his lips, but it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as it had been when Andrew had broken it the first time. Neil tentatively pushed at the bruising under his eye, then cut the water on and rubbed at the blood, flaking it off with his fingernails until there was nothing else.

“You have a death wish,” Andrew remarked.

“What’s it matter to you? You’re not my protector.”

“No, you made it clear that you didn’t need one of those,” Andrew scoffed. “Because you’re an idiot.”

Rolling his eyes, Neil dried his hands on his sweatpants. Behind him, Andrew swung down from the bunk, and when Neil turned around again, he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes intense.

“What?” Neil asked.

“We have an hour until dinner.”

“So lucky I have you in absence of a clock,” Neil snarked, looking pointedly at the clock on the wall.

Andrew didn’t say anything, just sank down against the wall until he was sitting, then pulled a knee to his chest. “Questions.”

“I love how you get to pick and choose whenever we start this game,” Neil grumbled, walking over, sitting down against the bunk beds and crossing his legs.

“It’s my game. I made it up.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have the attitude of a toddler?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you cry for your mommy at night?”

Anger rushed through Neil’s veins and he blinked a couple of times, forcing his eyes back to the peeling rubber sole of his shoe. “Fuck you,” he murmured quietly, trying to force all of the pain and rage back down.

Andrew was quiet for a long moment. “You can go first,” he finally said.

It almost sounded apologetic, but Andrew didn’t apologize, he was just a horrible human being. So Neil went for the throat.

“Why were you separated from your brother in the system?”

He heard Andrew suck in a breath, then a moment later, he let out a tight little laugh. “I deserved that,” he bit out.

Neil shrugged, but didn’t look up from his shoe.

“I don’t know the whole story yet. My birth mom didn’t want us. Guess she changed her mind. She took Aaron back, but not me.”

Neil waited for him to continue, but there was no more. Of course there was no more. Andrew gave raw truths like they meant absolutely nothing to him, never giving more information than what was asked for. “Okay,” he said.

“Did you get a good look at Roberts’ tits?”

Neil tried to parse the question, but he couldn’t figure out what or why Andrew was asking it. He finally looked up, but Andrew was just watching him with unwavering intensity. “What?”

Andrew grinned, but it looked sickly and wrong. “Everyone’s in love with her. Half the guys on this cellblock have fucked her, according to them. Nice, fucking tits.”

Neil had never heard Andrew talk like this, but it sounded forced, and stilted, and wrong coming out of his mouth. “Are _you_ in love with her?”

“Not my turn to answer.”

There was something else to this line of questioning, but Neil hadn’t figured it out yet. Andrew’s smile had turned cruel, and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he studied Neil, and Neil had no idea what he was waiting for him to say.

No idea.

He tried to summon up the visual of her from earlier and found he was already having trouble remembering her face. “She seems nice?”

“Not what I asked.”

“Fuck, Andrew, no, I wasn’t looking at her…” Neil shut his mouth and looked back down at his shoe, pissed off that _ _this__ was what Andrew wanted to talk about, frustrated that he could already feel his cheeks burning, angry that they still had 50 minutes until dinner and he was exhausted, and he just–

“Your turn,” Andrew said, interrupting Neil’s thoughts.

“Fuck you. Why did you ask me that?”

“Ah, ah, you can’t turn a question back that way.”

“That was never in the rules, and you’re a fucking dick. Why did you ask me that?” Neil pushed his legs out from under him to smack his feet into Andrew’s outstretched leg. Andrew just eyed him, completely unimpressed.

“Because when all of the guys surrounded you at practice, you seemed out of your element. Confused, and irritated, and completely oblivious. And I wanted to know why.”

“This is fucking stupid game,” Neil muttered.

Andrew just cocked his head and his grin grew further. “So why?”

“I don’t…is this a test of some sort? Do I have to find the nurse hot to pass? Fine. She’s hot? I don’t know, I don’t know, Andrew, this is so fucking stupid–”

“Have you ever kissed a girl?”

Neil’s mouth dropped open and he had to fight to close it again to stop from gaping at him. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Andrew was still just looking at him, just smiling that stupid feral smile, just waiting for Neil to crack. They’d started playing the questions game but it had morphed into something entirely different and Neil was completely bewildered. “I...guess? Once? But it was stupid, it was just a dare, and then my Mom found out and she was just…” he blinked and could remember the sting of her slap, the sound of her screaming at him about how distractions could get him killed. He still didn’t understand why she had been so angry. “It was just a dare. So yeah, I guess. Have you?”

“No.”

There was a finality to that, but Andrew had frozen in place, and Neil had to watch his chest to make sure he was even breathing at all. He tried to figure out where to go from here. There were questions he’d saved up to ask, but they were all wrong now. “I don’t…” he started, swallowing hard and then trying to wrap his tongue around the world. “I don’t really...I shouldn’t have...whatever...with that girl. It was a stupid thing to do. And my Mom was right. I put us in danger. I put __her__ in danger. And so it wasn’t really an option, and it’s not really an option, but even if it were...I don’t know. I’m not really interested. And I don’t know that I will be? I guess.” His ears felt too hot and his skin felt itchy and everything was just wrong. Neil squeezed his eyes closed, took a deep breath, then refocused on Andrew. “You owe me.”

Andrew still hadn’t moved, but his one arm wrapped around his knee tightened. “I owe you nothing. You didn’t have to elaborate.”

Sighing, Neil threw his head back on the bed. “Fine. You’re right. Why did you kiss your roommate?”

He wasn’t sure why he asked it, wasn’t sure if he was just trying to get back at Andrew or if he really wanted to know, but the words were out before he could stop himself.

Andrew’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before narrowing right back down again.

“Interesting,” he said.

“You started this game,” Neil reminded him.

“I __let__ him kiss me because someone else kissed me when I said no, and so I wanted to know what it felt like when I said yes.”

Neil’s stomach bottomed out, and he had to force himself not to react. “So–”

“My turn. How did your mother die?”

Neil couldn’t breathe. This had turned dangerous. This had turned into a truth for a truth, a knife for a knife, a mortal wound for a mortal wound, but they were boulders rolling down a hill, picking up speed and destined for destruction. He could do nothing to stop it. “They shot her. I didn’t know. She made me drive and so I drove and she said she was fine, but she wasn’t. I burned the car, and buried her, and hitchhiked down to Oakland, and I managed for a while but then the cops picked me up. And now I’m here.” His words were gluey ash, stopping up his throat and choking their way out. “Who kissed you when you said no?”

For a long second there was nothing but the ticking of the clock, the running of the toilet, the barely-there sound of Andrew breathing, growing tighter with every passing moment. “Where would you like me to start?”

Each word was clipped off, wrapped in fury, in rage, in desperate, unquenchable anger. Neil’s pain was an open wound, agonizing with every breath he took, but still fresh. Andrew’s was something so much worse. “Nevermind,” Neil said quietly.

“No.” Andrew let go of his knee, and his sneaker bumped against Neil’s, forcing Neil to look at him. “I had a great foster Dad when I was seven. Taught me how to throw a ball. Walked me to school every morning before he went to work. Pressed his hand against my mouth at night and told me if I said __please__ that he’d stop. When I was nine–”

“Andrew–”

“You asked.” His smile was long gone, and in its place was nothing but cold, unflinching hatred.

“Andrew, I–”

“No details? Fine. I’ve been in 12 foster homes. Some of them were better than others. None of them were nice.”

The buzzer rang, the door clicked open, and Andrew was up on his feet before Neil could come up with anything to say at all.

“Dinner, roomie,” he said casually, like nothing at all had happened, like they were both too broken to care anymore.

Maybe they were.

“Josten,” the guard barked, and Neil pushed himself off the floor and followed Andrew down the hall.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Chapter Warning**  
>  -self harm at the beginning of the chapter. Nothing worse than what's already been done/talked about
> 
> ***
> 
> So...this chapter took me forever because suddenly I got cold feet and felt like I rushed things. SORRY! 
> 
> As always, thank you all for reading. And let me know what you think! I absolutely love reading every single one of your comments so much!
> 
> <3 Coop

On Sunday, there was a notice on the board at their door that Cass, Richard, and Drake would be coming for visitation and the game on Friday.

How lucky that the Oakland County Juvenile Detention system was kind enough to schedule everything so he would get to talk to them first at 4PM, and _then_ get to go on the court and play for them at 5PM, and _then_ talk to them again after at 6PM.

How. Fucking. Lucky.

Neil didn’t say a thing about it, which was good because Andrew didn’t want to talk.

(Which was bad because it made Andrew like him more.)

And that was getting dangerous. Ever since they’d played the horrible truths game last week, Andrew had been trying to push every emotion down as far as he possibly could.

It didn’t help.

The truths he’d given were things he’d never told anyone, _not even Betsy_ , and it made his skin itch and crawl that Neil held that power over him. Neil didn’t talk about it, Neil didn’t bring it up, Neil didn’t look at him any differently, Neil didn’t pity him. But he still shouldn’t have said anything.

By the time his scheduled phone call came on Tuesday, Andrew was buzzing with the bad kind of energy, the kind that got him in trouble, the kind that made all of the kids fear him and all of the guards glare at him.

His youth advisor pulled him straight from a shitty therapy session where Bee was trying to get him to talk about the fresh gash that had bled through his sweatshirt and stained the fabric brown. (He didn’t want to talk about it. It was nothing. It was sitting in the middle of the hangar, listening to the coach talk for the upteenth time about the big game coming up, it was the coach looking at him and asking if his family would be coming this year, it was the memory of Drake coming last year and waving at him and shouting _Hey AJ!_ loud enough that Andrew could hear it in the goal, it was Neil tensing up beside him like a scared little rabbit, it was Andrew gritting his teeth and sticking his arm straight town and yanking it back up the jagged edge of the bleacher as hard as he could because everything else was out of fucked and it was nice to be in control of something. So not nothing. But nothing Andrew wanted to talk about.)

“Coming?” Brian asked.

Andrew looked up and realized that he’d slowed so much that Brian had already made it to the security door, and was now holding it open and waiting. Gritting his teeth, Andrew scowled at him, then forced himself through.

There was a line of prison phones in the hallway just beyond the doors to the visitation rooms. They weren’t separated at all–it was just 6 phones that hooked oldschool into the wall, and you had to stand there and have a conversation with someone listening in on the line, and five other kids talking loudly next to you. You only got one call a week. They’d schedule the calls, they’d pull you from wherever you happened to be in the day, and then you’d get ten minutes of talk time– nine minutes, then a warning buzzer, then a final minute before they cut the line.

Once, Andrew saw a boy cry because he didn’t get to say goodbye.

Andrew had never made it through the full ten minutes before hanging up with Cass. For a while, he’d tried to give her something, to keep her happy, to keep _her_ from crying. That got hard and so he started letting her do the talking while he listened and tried to make it sound like he was interested. Now, he just wanted her to stop calling all together.

This phonecall wasn’t Cass though.

This was something worse.

Three of the phones were already in use when they finally pulled to a stop. Brian stuck him on #4–right in the middle of everyone.

“10 minutes, you know the drill,” Brian said nicely.

Andrew refrained from giving him the finger. That would probably get him sent to solitary long enough that he’d get time added to his sentence. Not the worst thing in the world, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to stay in here any longer than he had to now that Aaron wanted to fucking visit.

 _Here_ was no longer safe.

 _Here_ was too close to Drake, would always be too close to Drake, and he didn’t want Aaron anywhere near that.

The phone rang.

Andrew grit his teeth, wrapped his hand around the gummy black receiver, then held it to his ear and didn’t say a word.

“Hello?” Luther’s voice was deep and controlled. He sounded like a man who got anything he wanted.

Andrew didn’t like him. So he didn’t answer.

“Hello? Andrew?”

“Speaking,” Andrew finally growled.

“Oh. Oh, okay, good. Well, then. I know we haven’t been properly introduced–”

“Luther,” Andrew said.

“Oh, call me Uncle Luther,” Luther said with an awkward laugh.

Andrew did not want to call him Uncle Luther. Andrew wanted to hang up the phone.

“How are you doing, son? They treating you alright in that place?” He gave the same awkward laugh, like he didn’t know how to talk to a criminal, but still thought he was funny.

Andrew didn’t answer.

“So…” Luther waited a second, then cleared his throat. “We just wanted to reach out. So unfortunate, this situation with Tilda, I mean your mother–”

“Not my mother.”

“Right, I can understand why you feel that way. Unfortunate, really. It was all just a bit much at the time for her. I know that doesn’t help you at all, I just want you to know that she loved you–”

“I’m not interested in hearing about that bitch,” Andrew said.

“Language,” the security guard on the line said, voice completely bored.

“Oh,” Luther started. “Oh, yes, okay, I know they told us that the prison would be listening in, but still takes you by surprise, doesn’t it? Hello!”

The security guard didn’t answer because he wasn’t there to have a conversation.

Andrew didn’t answer because it didn’t take him by surprise. It was his fucking normal.

“Right, then,” Luther continued. “I suppose we should get to the real purpose for me calling. Your brother told me that he reached out to you and you didn’t want to meet. Frankly, I consider that to be a poor choice.”

“Do you, now?” Andrew deadpanned. His hands were starting to sweat, and he looked down to see fresh blood blooming on his sweatshirt sleeve from where he’d been subconsciously rubbing at his arm. Fuck. He pulled the cuff of the sleeve up into the palm of his hand and tried to hold the stain against his body so the security guards that were walking back and forth wouldn’t see.

“I do. Your brother is a bright young man. Finding out he had a twin really shocked him. It really shocked all of us. We are going to do everything we can to get you home–”  
  
“Not my home.”

“We will make it your home, Andrew,” Luther said. “We want you here.”

His arm was burning. He’d sliced it way deeper than he’d meant to and it was going to scab over like hell later. “Not interested.”

“Would you please let us come out? Just me and Aaron. Meet each other. It’s the least that we can do.”

The least they could do would be to not keep one twin and throw the other into the shitty California foster system, but Andrew wasn’t about to start airing his long list of grievances to this jackass.

“Andrew?”

The boy next to him started shrieking obscenities into the phone and two guards rushed in to tear him away and cart him off. The receiver swung against the wall, hitting it with an off-kilter hollow _thunk, thunk, thunk._

“Andrew?”

“Why?” Andrew finally asked. He pushed a finger against the grimy cinder block wall and ran a nail along it, grimacing at the sound the rough stone made.

“Why? Because we want to meet you. Because you’re family.”

“No. I’m not. You want to meet me because it makes you feel like less of a fuck-up.”

“Last warning, Minyard,” the security guard said over the line.

“Noted,” Andrew muttered, running his nail along the stone again.

“Andrew, please–”

“You wanna come out here? FIne. Come out here. Bring my brother. Do whatever you want to do, I don’t care, I’ve got nowhere better to be, but don’t go playing it off like it’s some fu…” he caught himself with a grimace “... _stupid_ big happy family event. That’s BS.”

Luther was silent on the other end of the line for only a second before announcing loud enough to make Andrew hold the phone away from his ear. “Wonderful news, Andrew! Aaron will be so happy! We’ll be there next week. Visitation is on Saturdays, so we’ll be there on Saturday.”

Andrew frowned. Luther...talked like he already had the tickets in his stupid asshole hands, because he probably did. He didn’t care what Andrew thought about anything. This entire phone conversation had been just a fucking pretense, they were coming whether or not Andrew wanted them to come.

He had no control over anything.

Again.

Andrew squeezed his eyes closed and took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm and not punch a fist into the wall. “Great,” he muttered.

“Fantastic,” Luther replied. “We’ll see you next weekend, son. Hang in there.”

“See you next weekend, _Luther_ ,” Andrew forced out.

“Call me Uncle,” Luther said, in his big, booming, friendly, stupid, controlled voice.

 _Never_ , Andrew thought.

The phone beeped in his ear, warning him that he only had a minute.

He didn’t need a minute.

Andrew hung up the receiver and curled his hands to fists at his side, wishing that the bite of his fingernails actually did damage.

The boy on the other side of him said “I love you.”

The boy two phones down said “I miss you.”

The boy who was next to him hadn’t returned and his receiver still dangled lifelessly.

Andrew wished that he could have screamed, too.

***

They were doing presentations on Shakespeare in English class that afternoon, and true to form, Neil was the only one who had actually prepared anything.

He stood at the front of the class with his baggy sweatshirt and stupid skunk hair and recited a passage from King Lear and someone threw a paper airplane, and Mr. Jacobson was on his phone the entire time, but Andrew watched.

He was slumped over his desk and peering between his arms, but he watched.

Neil rushed the delivery.

And his cheeks were flushed.

And he swayed between both feet, and chewed on his lower lip, and kept wiping one hand against his sweatpants.

And his eyes were blue.

Fuck, okay, _fuck that,_ Andrew shut his eyes hard and scuffed his feet along the ripped up linoleum.

Neil finished to silence. Jacobson finally looked up from his desk, eyebrows furrowed. “Nice job, Mr…”

Neil just watched him, refusing to fill in his last name for the deadbeat useless teacher.

Andrew liked that too.

“Uh...Josten,” Jacobson finally said after rifling through papers. “Josten. Yes. Nice job.”

Neil rolled his eyes, then made his way back to the last row of desks and slid into the one next to Andrew’s. “Bullshit,” he muttered. “Wasn’t even paying attention.”

“Told you it was a waste of time,” Andrew said.

“Is anyone else presenting today?” Jacobson asked from the desk.

No one answered. Someone threw another paper airplane.

“We’ll be starting Dickens next week,” Jacobson said, with a half-hearted wave of his hand. “Chat amongst yourselves for the rest of class.”

“The teacher should fucking care,” Neil hissed. “He’s the one making or breaking our chance at a degree.”

“And that highschool diploma is so incredibly important for you, a runner, a rabbit, a dead man walking,” Andrew muttered.

“Fuck you,” Neil said, flipping Andrew off. “It will be useful. And you should care more about a future.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“You should. You could have a career in Exy–”

“Here we go again,” Andrew cut in, giving an exaggerated yawn. “Neil Josten, King of Exy, has entered the room, all bow in deference and listen to his wise and knowledgeable words.”

“Fuck you again. It’s not just that. You’re smart. But you could have a future either way. How much longer do you have in here?”

“Trying to get rid of me so soon?”

“I’m here till I’m 18. If I live that long, then I’m gone. You’re right. I’ll disappear. I’ll go into hiding, I’ll become someone who isn’t Neil Josten, and that’s it. That’s my life. You’ve got more than that.”

Andrew frowned. “It’s a little early for a heart to heart, bunny boy.”

“It’s 3 PM.”

“It’s always a little early for a heart to heart.”

Neil kept watching him, eyes narrowed and intense, lower lip pulled into his teeth.

Sighing, Andrew pushed himself up off his desk and crossed his arms. “I’m out in 4 months if I manage not to get sent to solitary again, which is getting more and more unlikely every moment I’m locked in a room with _you_.”

Neil shot him an entirely unaffected glare. “Come off it. You like me. Enough not to break my nose again, I guess.”

“How confident.”

“Fuck you times three. Whatever. 4 months. You’ll have a life again. Do you really want to come out of here and go straight into highschool wherever and not be able to keep up?”

“Think I’ll be just fine.”

“It’s so stupid,” Neil said. “You have a _life_.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Why is this so important to you?”

“Because I don’t.”

As soon as he said it, Neil grimaced, then turned to the side and reached under the desk, pulling out one of the battered math textbooks that was at least a decade out of date and was mostly defaced with inked graffiti. “Forget it,” he muttered. Then he opened to a random page and then started scribbling in his notebook.

Andrew leaned over far enough to sneak a glance.

He’d copied down two of the algebra sample equations and was slowly working his way through them, fingers white with tension as he gripped his pencil. Andrew watched the shape of his jaw for a moment. He watched the way Neil grit his teeth, the way his brow furrowed when he got stuck for a moment, the way his knee was bouncing erratically under the desk, filled with anxiety.

“Fuck it,” Andrew muttered. “Gimme your Lear.”

Neil paused. “What?”

“The Lear. The book. Give it.”

Neil slid it over, and Andrew snatched it off the desk, then stood up and strode to the front of the room.

 _Stupid,_ his brain taunted. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

Jacobson didn’t even look up, so Andrew kicked his desk. “Hey.”

“Yes?” Jacobson asked, still not looking up from his phone.

“The Shakespeare presentation. I’m ready.”

Jacobson finished texting something, set the phone down, then looked Andrew up and down. “What’s the catch, Minyard?”

“No catch. I’m ready.”

Jacobson waved his hand. “Fine. Go.”

Andrew turned back to the class. Most were still clumped into groups and in heavy conversation. Neil had leaned back in his desk, arms crossed over his chest. He was watching Andrew with intense curiosity.

“King Lear,” Andrew announced. Then he opened to a random chapter, read 10 stanzas, and recited back everything he’d learned back in middle school when they’d done a Shakespeare segment, twisting it to match the section that he’d read.

He was nothing if not a good bullshit artist.

When he finished, he saluted Jacobson (who was looking at his phone again and gave a perfunctory nod) then marched back to the last row and smacked the book down on Neil’s desk.

“Happy?”

The curiosity had turned into utter confusion. Neil hesitantly took the book back and thumbed through to the section Andrew had read. “You studied for this?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, explain.”

“You going to use a question on that?”

“Fuck you times four, could we not play the questions game for half a second?”

“No fun,” Andrew grinned. “My 7th grade english class did a unit on Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet. Boring.”

“That explains nothing.”

“Good memory,” Andrew said, tapping his head. “Told you I’d have no problems in school.”

Neil huffed in frustration, then turned back to his math problems.

And Andrew hunched back over his desk, closed his eyes, and hid his smile in the crook of his arm.

***

The next few days were uneventful.

Exy was boring. No one could seem to execute a single play that Beltran tried, and unless Neil was on the court, Andrew spent all of his time sitting in the goal, smacking the battered racquet against the cement floor.

Bee was boring. He told her about Luther, she asked how he felt, he told her how he felt, she pursed her lips and talked at him, he pretended to listen, she let him go. He told her about Aaron, she asked how he felt, he told her how he felt, she pursed her lips and talked at him, he pretended to listen, she let him go.

Rinse and repeat.

Rec time was boring because Neil ran, and Andrew didn’t.

Sometimes he paced the window and every so often looked out of it, and definitely, _definitely_ didn’t watch.

Most of the time, he sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair and half-heartedly watched whatever the fuck was on the tiny tv.

There were a couple of new admittances. One was a burly guy named Jacob who stomped around wherever he went and scowled a lot, and threatened enough of the boys that everyone started giving him a wide berth.

He was a stupid, posturing idiot, but Andrew kept his eye on him.

The only thing that wasn’t boring was when their room door locked and they were left with nothing to do but trade truths. Now, though, they’d taken a break from trying to mortally wound each other and spent far more time exchanging ridiculous facts.

What’s your favorite color? (Neil: Black. Andrew: Grey.)

Cats or dogs? (Neil: Cats. Andrew: Cats.)

What’s your favorite food? (Neil: I don’t know, food’s food, stop glaring at me, fine, salad? Andrew: You’re a stupid idiot rabbit, no one likes salad, mine’s ice cream.)

Have you killed a man? (Neil: what the fuck kind of question is that, have you? Andrew: Maybe.)

What would you name a cat? (Neil: Dog. Andrew: You’re an idiot.)

So things were fine.

 _Fine_ was a solid line that Andrew didn’t trust at all, so he warily rode it out, waiting for shit to inevitably hit the fan again.

Which, unsurprisingly, did not take long.

Thursday afternoon, Andrew settled into his favorite plastic chair at rec hour. The boys near him all scurried away, so he kicked his feet up on the seat in front of him and leaned back, keeping one eye on that Jacob kid who’d managed to stage a coup at the Foosball table and take complete control.

And Neil slid in next to him.

Andrew frowned. This was new. “Pull a muscle?” he wryly asked.

“Funny,” Neil muttered, but his nose was scrunched up, like the act of sitting down and not going outside took him by surprise too. “It’s too hot today,” he finally said, just a hair too slow.

Andrew flicked a look outside. The sun was out, but the yard was full of boys lounging about. He looked back at Neil.

“Running laps out there sucks,” Neil finally said. “I’m still getting Exy time. And extra jogging time in the hangar. And it’s fucking miserable today.”

Andrew’s eyebrows rose.

“Don’t get too excited, I won’t make a habit of it.”

“I’m so flattered that I rate ever so slightly higher than the bricked in square patch of dead grass,” Andrew deadpanned, then leaned back in his seat.

Neil rolled his eyes, but then fixed his eyes on the television and watched.

There was no exy match today–just the local news.

Boring as hell.

Andrew half-heartedly listened, half-heartedly watched the other kids around the room, and half-heartedly debated the merits of kicking Neil’s chair. Or maybe kicking Neil. Or maybe marching over to that asshole Jacob and throwing the first punch just to get it out of the way.

Then Neil jerked beside him, freezing so suddenly that his chair slid across the linoleum.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Andrew looked at him, then looked at the television.

 _Nathan Wesninski of Baltimore Arrested on Tax Evasion and Racketeering Charges_ played across the lower banner while a woman in a red pantsuit stood outside a house interviewing someone who was apparently a neighbor.

Andrew looked back to Neil, whose eyes were glued completely to the screen. “Friend of yours?”

“Fuck,” Neil said again, even quieter.

Andrew frowned. “Neil.”

Neil didn’t look at him.

“Rabbit. Hey. Neil.” He reached out and smacked the back of Neil’s head–not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to startle him.

“Knock it off,” Neil growled, then turned back to the screen.

The camera man had focused in on the bright red door of the three level Carriage House. The reporter had started talking about Wesninski’s dealings in the business world, the high profile case of the day trader, and the millions he’d siphoned away over decades. Then they flashed a picture on the screen.

Andrew looked back at Neil, who had closed his eyes.

“Interesting,” Andrew said.

Neil huffed a pained sounding laugh. “Fuck,” he said for the third time.

“Are we happy? Or are we having another breakdown?”

Eyes closing tighter, Neil sucked another breath in. “Can it be both?”

“Always the overachiever,” Andrew said.

The news flipped over to a story about a local bakery giving away food to those in need. No one looked back at them. The rec room was still the rec room, the inmates were still the inmates, the guards were still the guards.

Neil Josten wasn’t Neil Josten though.

“What’s your first name?” Andrew asked.

Neil just shook his head, then stood up suddenly, walked over to the door, and waited for the guard to open it into the yard. Then he started running.

Andrew leaned back in his seat, crossed his arms, thought about Nathan Wesninski, and watched Neil do lap, after lap, after lap.

***

Neil was quiet all through dinner. He picked at his food, so Andrew snagged his fruit cup and ate it. Neil didn’t even react.

So Andrew pushed his tray into Neil’s.

Neil didn’t react.

So Andrew snapped his fingers in front of Neil’s face.

“What?” Neil muttered, not even looking up.

“What do you think?”

“Can we talk about this later?”

Andrew stabbed a soggy pear with his spork and held it up, inspecting it in the sallow cafeteria lighting. “Because there are _so_ many people are listening to us now.”.

Neil flicked him an irritated look, then pushed his almost entirely untouched tray of food towards Andrew. “You want any of this?”

Andrew shook his head.

Shrugging, Neil stood up and took his tray with him. Andrew watched him dump it all, then go talk to the security guard standing near the staircase that led to the library. He nodded, then let Neil through.

Neil disappeared up the steps, and Andrew went back to glaring at the soggy pear.

Finally, he ate it, then ate the rest of the fruit, then tipped the cup into his mouth and drank every last bit of syrup. When the buzzer finally rang, he made his way back to their room.

Neil reappeared briefly to drop a copy of Les Miserable on the bed before they were led back out to shower. Fifteen minutes later, the door buzzed closed behind them for the last time in the night.

Andrew leaned against the door, and watched Neil.

Sighing heavily, he walked over to the bunk and sat down, leaning back against his bed. “The library offerings are pathetic,” he said weakly, pulling a knee to his chest. His other leg was extended out in front of him still, but his foot was jiggling from side to side, fast, fast, fast.

Andrew nudged it with his own as he sat down against the wall, across from Neil.

Familiar spots.

Familiar space.

“My father had a lot of fronts,” Neil said quietly. “He was a well known day trader in Baltimore. And he bought up a lot of companies. I don’t know how they got him on tax fraud or whatever, but it doesn’t mean I’m safe. He won’t stay in prison long, and his people are still going to be after me.”

Andrew cocked his head. He was almost surprised that Neil gave up the information so easily, but they’d also moved far beyond the point of this game being a transaction.

This was a freely given truth.

This was trust.

Neil was still staring at the same spot on the floor, and his foot was still in constant motion, and his jaw was sharp with tension. “And my name’s Nathaniel,” Neil murmured, resting his chin on his knee and watching the floor.

 _Nathaniel._ Andrew watched him long enough to see him swallow hard, then spoke. “Do you want it to be Nathaniel?”

Neil’s eyes flicked up and met Andrew’s for just a second before landing back on the floor. “Not really,” he said quietly.

“Do you want it to be Neil?”

He didn’t look up again, but he let go of his knee long enough to push his hair away from his eyes. “Neil is nothing but a runaway delinquent who got picked up with fake IDs.”

Andrew didn’t say anything, just waited.

Eventually, Neil gave a strangled little laugh and started picking at the rubber tread of his shoe, peeling it even further back and watching it shred. “I guess I still want to be Neil.”

“Cool.”

“That’s it? Just cool?”

Shrugging, Andrew leaned forward and batted Neil’s hand away from his shoe. “You’re not getting another pair of those, you know,” he muttered. “And it’s going to be real hard to play Exy in bare feet.”

“What do you care?” Neil asked. He went straight back to picking at the shoe, and Andrew stifled a flash of irritation.

Idiot rabbit.

Neil swallowed again and Andrew was back to watching the way his throat moved. “I don’t,” Andrew finally muttered.

“Right.” Neil looked up at him then and held his gaze, icy blue eyes defiant, but sad. “You hate me.”

“I hate you,” Andrew echoed.

Neil nodded slowly and swallowed again.

Every breath Andrew took was too loud in his ears, and his heart was starting to pound. This was bad.

This was bad, bad, bad.

“I want to kiss you,” he said.

Bad.

Neil blinked. “Okay,” he said quietly. It was impossibly slow, the clock ticked and it was impossibly slow. Somewhere from down the hall, a boy started yelling.

Somewhere from below them, a muted buzzer sounded off.

Andrew slowly rolled up onto his knees and crawled over to Neil, straddling his hips and pushing a hand to his chest hard enough that Neil was pinned between him and the bed. “Don’t touch me.”

“I know.”

The yellowing bruise left over from Neil getting hit in practice the other day was more visible up close, and Andrew’s eyes followed the line of it, around his eye, across his cheekbone, over to his nose.

Bad.

Bad.

Bad.

Andrew kissed him.

He tasted like the cheap toothpaste they gave out, and he smelled like the cheap soap they used in the showers, and when Andrew wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, his hair was still damp from the showers.

Neil’s eyes closed, but Andrew’s didn’t.

Neil’s hands tightened to fists at his side, but he didn’t move.

It only lasted a moment, then Andrew pushed himself back again and scooted over to the wall where he’d been sitting before everything changed.

His skin was tingling electric, and he was too hot, and the clock was too loud, and Neil was staring at him with eyes that were too blue.

“What,” Andrew grated out, refusing to look away.

“You hate me,” Neil said.

“I hate you,” Andrew repeated again.

Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and chewing, Neil considered Andrew for a long moment. “Okay,” he finally said. His cheeks were flushed, and his mouth quirked into an almost-smile. He shrugged, then pushed himself up, crawled into the bunk, and grabbed his book.

Andrew watched him for a long time.

Neil never turned a page.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *****CHAPTER WARNINGS*****   
>  _*More mentions of self-harm_   
>  _*Drake. His own warning. No explicit references to anything, nor will there be in the fic, but Andrew is in a really bad place and is having some flashback nightmares._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. THE DAY AFTER THE KISS. Shit's about to hit the fan. (Okay, it's already hitting the fan, it's been hitting the fan for 45k.) 
> 
> Again, I can't thank you all enough for your continued reading/commenting/and support of this fic. Y'all are keeping me going like crazy!
> 
> As a heads up, my updates are probably going to come a lot slower now that it's 2021. I'm trying to keep up with everything, but I've got some non-fandom projects that are taking up more of my time now and so I just want to warn you! I'll still try to drop chapters on this as fast as I can, just wanted to throw that out there 😬😬😬 
> 
> Please note the additional chapter warnings on this--stuff is not getting any lighter, that's for sure.

Sometimes, Andrew dreamed.

He dreamed about fast cars, and blue Jansport backpacks, and the fuzzy face of a teacher who gave him a hug when he didn’t want to be hugged, but needed it anyway, and he dreamed of hands.

He dreamed about the words _I love you_ , but they were underwater garbled because in his dream he’d never heard them before.

He dreamed about skies that were blood red, and he dreamed about the heavy sound water made when you submerged yourself completely.

He dreamed about the word _please_.

He dreamed about monsters under the bed, but the monsters did not have claws, or fur, or fangs, they had human smiles and they said things like _did you miss me_.

He dreamed about kissing Neil Josten.

Sometimes when Andrew dreamed, he couldn’t move afterwards. His body went into some sort of paralyzed shock, and he could still see every image playing behind his eyelids if he closed them so his only choice was to keep them open and watch the black of the ceiling and the fluorescent red of the exit sign and wait until his fingers finally gained enough circulation to release the sheets they’d been so tightly gripping.

He was like that now.

Because sometimes, he dreamed about Neil saying no, and Andrew saying yes, and Andrew not listening just like his last roommate didn’t listen and he dreamed about Neil turning into Aaron and Andrew turning into Drake.

Andrew took another breath in and swallowed. He couldn’t hear Neil underneath him because the damn toilet was doing it’s white noise running again.

Once, Cass left the bathroom fan on down the hall from his bedroom and he didn’t realize it because he was already asleep. He didn’t realize it because he slept so deeply. He didn’t realize it until there was a heavy weight on top of him and his eyes shot open and all he could see was Drake smiling down.

White noise was supposed to help you sleep.

Andrew didn’t want to sleep ever again.

He blinked hard and managed to slowly bring a hand up to his face. Clenching his fingers into a tight fist, Andrew pushed against his mouth and bit down.

A buzzer went off somewhere below them, muted sound cutting through the running toilet for a single moment before falling quiet again.

***

“You look awful.”

Andrew scowled at Neil, then looked down at his breakfast–some sort of oatmeal glop with a carton of milk and a browning banana. There was something terrible lodged deep in his throat, and he couldn’t speak around it. Andrew had gotten to the point where he could recognize the beginning stages of a panic attack, but unlike Neil's version-pressed up against the wall, gasping for breath and tearing at his hair-Andrew’s were slow, agonizing things that built up from this same sort of pressure in his throat and ended in violence.

“Usually you’d say something back,” Neil prompted. “Like, _fuck you_ , or, _same to you_ , or at the very least, call me a stupid rabbit name and flip me off.”

Today was not a talking day.

Neil was apparently too stupid to figure that out.

Andrew pushed at his oatmeal, then started eating.

“Look, if it’s...if it’s about yesterday, and you’re upset at me or something, that’s fine, I get it, I don’t know...can you just...I guess...say that?”

Andrew took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

“I didn’t mean to–”

“You have a very large ego, Josten,” Andrew said. "Maybe not everything is about you."

Neil opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then he looked back down at his food. “That’s not what I meant,” he muttered.

The tips of his ears were pink, and he was chewing on his lip, and in another world, now would be the time that Andrew would tell him he wanted to kiss him again, but this wasn’t another world, and Neil was an idiot, and Andrew hated him, but he hated himself more.

Andrew peeled his banana. There was a giant bruise along one entire side. It would have been good for banana bread. Cass would have saved it another day and made bread while he was at school and then he would have come home and had a slice. She would have asked him about his day. He probably wouldn’t have told her about his day but it would have been nice that she asked.

Fuck, today was the sort of day he needed Betsy but he wouldn’t get his normal appointment because instead he got visitation, and exy, and visitation again.

Neil was back to staring.

Neil.

Nathaniel.

Nathaniel Wesninski.

Son of a man in prison for tax fraud, son of a man who had done much worse.

Runner.

Boy with blue eyes.

Boy who Andrew kissed and who kissed Andrew back and who didn’t touch when he was asked not to touch.

Fuck, he needed Betsy.

“I just meant that it’s okay if you’re angry and we don’t have to talk about it again if you don’t want to,” Neil finally said.

Andrew took one last bite of oatmeal, then stood up and left the table.

***

By the time visitation came, Andrew was barely able to contain the anger roiling in his gut. Neil had wisened up by lunch and was no longer trying to speak after Andrew refused to say a single word to him in class.

He was extra twitchy right now, sitting on the bottom bunk with his stupid Dickens book from the library–knee doing the out of control jiggling thing, fingers constantly rubbing at his hairline like he could disguise the fact that it was all growing in red, lower lip chewed raw.

On any other day, Andrew would have needled and pushed, spending an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out why.

Not today.

The door buzzed and a security guard stepped in, motioning for Andrew to come.

Neil looked up. “See you at the game?”

Andrew grunted in response, then pulled at his sweatshirt sleeves until they were firmly clasped in his palms and followed the guard out the door.

The group of boys heading towards the visitation room was much smaller than the normal Saturday crowd, since the only ones with visitation privileges today were the ones on the exy team. They filled the hall with crazed excitement all the same. Oakland had been the first to try a program like this, and apparently the director had pitched some story about how criminals playing exy might have the potential to push towards reform in the juvenile justice system. The national news had picked up the story and were going to be there providing live coverage, so voices grew louder and louder in anticipation as they were herded down the hall. Andrew watched as Alex, a 16 year old backliner for the team, shoved against Max and gave a loud whoop.

“We’re gonna be rich,” he yelled, jumping and smacking the palm against the cinderblock all the way down the hall.

He was a fucking idiot.

A bunch of the other boys picked up the chant until one of the guards blew a whistle quieting everything ever so slightly.

Andrew just followed along, teeth grit in fury.

Everything about this was stupid, stupid, stupid.

When they came to the final gate, families were all sitting at the tables waiting, just like they always were. The guard who led Andrew out was one of the newer ones, a young guy with a stupid looking mustache, and he kept a bruising grip on Andrew’s arm, forcing him forward at a much quicker pace than Andrew wanted to walk.

“Lighten up,” Andrew muttered, snatching his arm out of his grasp as soon as they were at the table.

“Watch it, Minyard.”

“Watch it, _Alvarez_ ,” Andrew mocked, reading his nametag.

Alvarez frowned, eyes narrowing in anger, but he didn’t say anything.

Andrew knew he wouldn’t.

No one on staff wanted to be the reason this game didn’t happen. No one wanted to face the inevitable fury of the rich asshole who owned the place if he didn’t get the national coverage he’d been promised. So Andrew cocked his head and grinned, just to piss off the guard more, then sat down at the table with Cass, Richard, and Drake, crossed his arms, and didn’t say anything else.

Richard was watching another family jump up and hug one of the boys.

Cass was playing with a gold chain necklace around her throat that was very shiny, and that Andrew didn’t recognize.

Drake was in full military garb.

Andrew didn’t know the _why_ , all he knew was that it made him look even more dangerous. Now, every line of his profile was sharp enough to cut.

“Thank you for your service,” Alvarez said from behind Andrew, then gave a stupid little salute.

Drake saluted right back, grinning so wide his dimples popped.

Andrew hated him.

“Good to see you, son,” Richard said, finally looking over and giving a distinctly Richard-the-wet-mop grin.

“Andrew?” Cass asked hesitantly, after he didn’t answer.

Andrew hadn’t looked her in the face since the last time she brought Drake with her, but today, his eyes snapped up and he glared.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “We’ve missed you.”

The silence grew again, uncomfortably large between the four of them until Drake snapped fingers in front of Andrew’s face. “Hey, AJ,” he said, just like the last time, then threw an arm out around Andrew’s shoulders and pulled him in tight. Andrew stiffened, face right up against Drake’s chest, against the perfectly pressed uniform, right in the spot that Andrew’s head fit underneath his chin.

That awful feeling in his throat was getting worse and he could smell Drake’s deodorant through the uniform, that Oldspice with the citrus and the cloves, and it was up in Andrew’s nostrils now, and he couldn’t pull away–

They’d shared a bathroom at the house.

Drake was neat. Clean. Perfect. Had a stick of Oldspice Classic sitting next to the cup with their toothbrushes–one green, one blue. Had a tube of Crest Whitening Toothpaste sitting next to that.

They both used the same toothpaste.

There was a mirror on the medicine cupboard and Andrew tried not to look in it because most days he didn’t want to see himself, but usually he failed.

There was another bathroom in the master bedroom, one that had pretty white and blue striped wallpaper, and a walk in shower, and little seashell soaps in a dish next to the sink, but that was Cass and Richard’s, so Andrew and Drake kept upstairs. Andrew always waited for Drake to go first in the morning, and usually that worked out okay, but sometimes Drake waited too long, and Andrew had to get to school, and so they ended up together, shoulder to shoulder, Drake spitting toothpaste down the drain and Andrew still brushing, brushing, brushing, like nothing was wrong.

Someone yelled “ _Mom!”_ behind them, Drake let go, and Andrew pushed himself back over to his seat, finally giving in to the urge to wipe his hands on his sweatpants, mostly because he needed something to do to disguise the way his hands were starting to shake.

 _Rage,_ he tried to tell himself.

It wasn’t just rage. It was something worse.

“Andrew…” Cass reached up and tucked her hair behind her ears, then started fiddling with the gold chain again. “I know you’ve been upset,” she said quietly. “And I understand why, now.”

Richard kept smiling like everything was exactly the way it should be.

Maybe it was.

Andrew’s fists clenched and unclenched underneath the table. He thought about breathing. He thought about how Betsy would tell him that it was okay to have boundaries even with family, even if it meant he didn’t want to talk to them or see them or think about them. That was okay, he was allowed to want that, he was allowed to ask for that, and they were supposed to listen.

Betsy would also ask him for a rose and a thorn, a good and a bad, a happy and a not-so-happy and Andrew wouldn’t be able to give her anything but silence.

“Andrew?” Cass prodded again.

Andrew forced his eyes up, then gave her an awful grin. “Yes, _Cass_?”

She flinched.

“Andrew,” Richard said, in that deep Richard voice that was supposed to be commanding, but was mostly useless.

Drake leaned forward, reaching a hand out and covering one of Andrew’s. “AJ, Mom has been really worried about you. You’re not talking? She misses you. I miss you.”

One of his thumbs was rubbing over the flesh between Andrew’s thumb and forefinger and he tried to yank his hand away, but Drake just held on tighter.

It was nothing but a machismo show of strength. Andrew hated him.

He yanked harder and Drake let go, but not before flashing Andrew a dangerous, glassy grin.

“Andrew,” Cass said again, biting back tears. “Your Uncle called. Luther Hemmick.”

Everything stopped.

There was an awful ringing in his ears, and everything was the wrong kind of hot, and he couldn’t manage to swallow, and for a second, for a terrifying second, he thought he was going to throw up all over the table.

“Andrew?” someone asked, and it wasn’t Drake, and it wasn’t Neil, and that was ridiculous because why would Neil be here, and it was Cass, of course it was Cass, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

Drake tried to reach across the table again, so Andrew buried his hands between his legs, pressing his knees together as hard as he could. He was still handcuffed, because that was protocol. He was dangerous, after all, a violent criminal offender, who shouldn’t be on the streets. It was for everyone’s safety, everyone but him, and now he couldn’t pull far enough from the metal to work a finger up under his sweatshirt sleeve and pick at the scabs.

He didn’t know what to do.

Neil would know what to do.

Neil was an idiot, and a runner, and a disaster, but he’d have something stupid to say and Andrew would probably not smile, but maybe he would, and that would be enough.

“Hey, buddy,” Drake said softly and reached a hand underneath the table again, palm laying flat on Andrew’s knee.

Sometimes, Andrew dreamed.

He dreamed of California freeways, and constellations, and dust storms so thick you could barely breathe, and knives.

He dreamed of knuckles hitting bone so hard they split open, the way Drake’s name sounded when Cass said it, and the way Cass smiled like she loved Andrew even though she loved everyone, that’s who she was.

He dreamed of inky dark, of the word _please_ , of the word _quiet_ , of the word _fuck_ , of his own fingers wrapped around the handle of a knife with a blade sharp enough to slice the human smile right off the monster’s face.

“Luther called,” Cass said again, and she had probably said something else first, but Andrew was still trying to breathe.

“Okay,” he said.

“Andrew, he told us that you want to move back to South Carolina to be with your brother. And of course I understand, we all understand–”

“We want what’s best for you,” Richard cut in, like he had ever been around long enough to know what was best for anyone besides himself.

Cass nodded in agreement though. “We want what’s best for you, sweetheart. And of course you would want to be with your brother. So we talked it through with Luther–offered them a place to stay of course when they come visit next week–”

Andrew’s head shot up. “What?”

“Well, they wanted to just stay in a hotel–”

“I don’t want them to stay with you,” Andrew said. He tried to say it slowly. Steadily. With the same sort of authority that made every kid here run away from him. And it worked, sort of, Cass sat up straighter, Richard’s smile lessened, Drake was watching him with eyes just a little too curious.

His stomach turned, and there was too much saliva in his mouth, and he really didn’t feel good, he really, really thought he was going to be sick.

If he’d done all of this, if he’d gotten locked up here and this was for nothing–

“It’s okay,” Cass said gently. “They refused. Luther thought it would be a little too…”

“Weird,” Richard said.

Her eyes squeezed closed a second, like she was offended he’d even spoken at all. “I think he didn’t want to muddy anything even more than it had already been…”

“Muddied,” Richard said.

Richard Spear was useless as a human being. Maybe he’d make a good parrot.

“I just think it would have been nice of them to stay,” Drake said mildly.

His hand was still on Andrew’s knee.

For a terrifying moment, Andrew thought about jerking up off the table, throwing his entire body at Drake, and seeing how far he could get in ripping his face off before the entire security division of the facility descended on them both.

The only thing stopping him was Aaron.

He carefully drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “Okay.”

“I’m so glad you decided to let them in, Andrew,” Cass said.

“I haven’t...I mean…I don’t know...”

Today was not a talking day, and even Neil had finally understood that but no one else listened.

“I don’t think he’s decided on it yet, Mom,” Drake said, smile growing again and eyes not leaving Andrew’s face. “Leaving us, I mean.”

“Well, it’s a big decision, kiddo,” Richard said, like he’d ever called Andrew kiddo in his life.

Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew saw that Max kid hugging a younger girl and an even younger boy, and someone who must have been his mom was standing over all three of them with tears in her eyes.

“I haven’t talked to them yet,” Andrew finally managed to mutter.

“Right.” Drake finally looked away, only to give a triumphant grin towards Cass. “Told you. He doesn’t know yet. Don’t get all worried!”

“But, I know, Andrew, you know we’ll support you no matter what and of course you always have a place with us, but please don’t feel–”

“What’s your save rate out on the court?” Richard asked, eyes landing on Andrew again.

Richard Spear was useless as a human being, but he had his moments.

“Don’t calculate official rankings. We’re a prison.”

“Well they must have some statistical knowledge of their players.”

Cass frowned. “Richard–”

“How many of you are on this team?”

Andrew swallowed. “There are 22 kids on the team right now, 9 in a half, and they rotate everyone through pretty rapid pace. There are 3 goalies, so they probably have something in the way of stats on me. The rest aren’t played like typical Exy. Players rotate in on no official schedule, the entire program is built to study socialization and stress outlets, not to gauge player value.” Thank god for Neil Josten. For the next incredibly uncomfortable fifteen minutes, Andrew relayed every bit of nonsense Exy terminology he could, cycling through Bertran’s lectures, over to Neil’s continued idiotic assessments of all current college ball, back to some of the plays the team might execute today.

Richard ate it all up.

Cass stayed quiet.

And Drake’s hand stayed on Andrew’s knee.

***

The moment the buzzer blared and Andrew was led back to the shower stalls to change, he punched the cinderblock wall as hard as he could.

His knuckles split open immediately, and so he hit again, and again, until there was blood staining the wall and his hand started swelling so bad he could barely close it.

He didn’t know what to do, or how to fix this, or how to just fucking keep waking up every single day. Fire was coursing through his blood, acid was eating its way through his lungs, and he was so tired.

So damn tired.

The boys outside of his stall were starting to gather, noise rising as they all got each other pumped up about playing on television. Andrew cut on the shower just enough to rinse the drying blood from his hand, then finished pulling on his socks.

He came out of the shower stall to see Neil standing at the sink, padding already on, stupid Oakland Detention Facility jersey on top.

Number 14.

No last name, because the jerseys were shared and got thrown into the bin with the rest of the equipment at the end of the match.

Neil was holding a second jersey, and handed it over to Andrew. “Didn’t know if you’d get a chance to go to the equipment room before changing,” he said. “Wanted to make sure you got your lucky number.”

Andrew snorted. He didn’t have a lucky number, but everyone avoided him enough to not want to touch his shit. He’d worn the Number 3 at the first game he’d ever played, and no one ever took it again.

But apparently Neil had noticed.

“Still not talking?”

Andrew snagged the jersey, then wriggled into it, pulling it down over the sweatshirt he was wearing. Gloves, a helmet, and more padding would go on top. They’d gotten a new shipment of regulation gear in just this week so that when the game aired nationally, no one got it in their heads that they should sue the facility for endangering youth.

He couldn’t wait to sweat to death in it.

“Not talking, then. Cool.”

“I’m talking,” Andrew grunted.

“Okay. Just not to me?”

“Needy, much?”

“Oh! Words! I am needy. So very needy. See, I’m in this English class, really stellar teacher by the way, but we were assigned Dickens, and so I started this book called Great Expectations, you might have heard of it, and truly, what an ideal romance, to be so in love with someone who hates you back…”

“Trying to tell me something?”

Neil grinned. “You have a very large ego, Minyard.”

They were the same words Andrew had said at breakfast, parroted back in Neil, I’m-an-asshole-and-you-walked-right-into-that voice.

Andrew didn’t smile, but something cracked open inside of him, just enough for him to breathe for the first time in hours. “You’re an idiot.”

“So you’ve said. You alright?”

“No.”

Neil shrugged. “Makes two of us.”

One of the guards whistled, all of the boys lined up, Andrew followed Neil out of the showers and into the hallway where they were marched ceremoniously down the hallway. They made a quick stop to pick up gear, then followed security outside.

The noise inside the hangar was so loud, Andrew could hear the muted sound of it out here in the courtyard. He glanced over at Neil who had already shoved his helmet, gave him a mock salute, then followed the team inside.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOO. Part 2 of the 3 part Andrew-Weekend-From-Hell series is here! In which Neil gets feisty, angry words are shouted, more truths are told, feelings are had.
> 
> 1\. I'm super behind at replying to comments, and I'm SO SORRY, please know that I appreciate every single comment I get (like seriously, shoot off my chair and scream to the gods of AO3 every time I get an e-mail) and I promise I'll catch up soon!
> 
> 2\. I'm so sorry about the slow updates! Too many irons in the fire or however that saying goes...(Okay I totally had to look that saying up just now because I wrote 'too many coals in the fire' and then was like...wait...that is...not correct...)
> 
> 3\. I love you all, thank you so much for your constant support of this fic, I want to give everyone all the hugs in the world!
> 
> 4\. I figured out the end of the fic! It's still like...easily 30k away. Probably more. BUT I KNOW IT NOW. Assuming it stays that way, this will have to be a series with a part two. BUT I'm also the craziest of pantsers so all of that might change, who knows, anyone? Certainly not me...
> 
> 5\. Hope you are all having a lovely week <3

The hangar was louder than it had ever been before, and there were camera crews everywhere. Neil’s breath stuttered to a halt and his legs slowed. He desperately wanted to turn and run, but Andrew was still at his back, shoving him forward, forcing him in the building.

“Keep moving,” he hissed.

The bleachers on the near side of the court were filled with inmates who were yelling, stomping, and echoing off every aluminum wall. The guards allowed the chaos, only because the tv crews were eating it all up. Neil swallowed, then took another step forward, and another, following the team until they arrived at the single set of bleachers closest to the plexiglass-enclosed Exy field. The bottom three rows were empty–saved for the members of the team. The rest were filled with family members. Neil looked up for only a moment, watching as a couple of young girls waved frantically towards one of the other boys. Then he tugged at his helmet, making sure it was still firmly in place. A tall man with a mic ran up to the front of their line and started peppering Beltran with questions. Beltran gave him some bullshit sound clip about the team being excited to play for the nation, then held up a hand and barked out the line-up. Neil was only too happy to run towards the court without a single look back.

Like every game they’d played, this one was a disaster.

They still had no clue how to work together as a team, and now, with news crews posted at all four corners of the field, every person on the court was trying their hardest to be camera worthy. There were backliners coming off their lines and trying to steal the ball to make a shot on goal, none of the strikers were working together in the slightest, and within the first two minutes of the game, Max swiped a racquet at Neil’s legs, causing him to lose control and go sprawling across the court.

It was chaos, and Neil was furious. He just wanted to play, he just wanted to run, he just wanted to disappear into the game and forget everything else, but all he could do was watch the entire thing trainwreck and try not to get himself injured. By the time they came off the court at half, he could feel anger coursing through his veins and he was one step shy of shoving Max up against a wall and burying his fist in his face.

“Cool it,” Andrew muttered next to him, yanking his helmet off and throwing himself down on the bench.

Neil grit his teeth, then sat down next to him. One of the sub players was handing out styrofoam cups of water, and Neil took one before realizing there was no way to drink with his helmet still on.

Andrew studied him with a knowing gaze, then looked down at the gloves he was still wearing and carefully flexed his hand.

“Where’s your family?” Neil asked. It was a dick move, but the bitter fury hadn’t settled at all and the tension thrumming through his body was only winding tighter with every passing moment.

Andrew ought to know by now that Neil’s go-to anxiety release was being an asshole, but he still cocked his head, eyes narrowing.

“You talk too much,” Andrew said–slow and so pointed Neil could hear every click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“You like it.”

“You look like an idiot with that helmet on your head.”

Neil swallowed.

The other boys swarmed around them, grabbing water then climbing the stands to sit with their families.

“AJ!”

Andrew tightened next to him. Neil watched him for a moment, the way his jaw pulled tight, the way the veins at his neck popped.

“Hey! AJ!”

Neil turned around and saw some guy in a military suit halfway to standing. The blonde woman next to him was pulling him back down again, and the man on his other side was waving right towards Neil. “There they are,” Neil quietly confirmed.

“Indeed,” Andrew muttered. He didn’t turn around to look. The team was confined to the three benches as the news crew walked back and forth, cables and lines tangling beneath their feet. Family wasn’t allowed down to the inmates, but that didn’t stop Neil from feeling the burning of Andrew’s foster family’s eyes at the back of his neck. Andrew didn’t say anything else, but he’d torn off his gloves and was compulsively scratching underneath his wrist bracers. One hand was swollen–knuckles bloody and bruised–but Andrew didn’t even wince as he closed his fingers into a fist, then opened, then closed, then opened.

“Can you play?” Neil asked.

“Always exy, all the time. Yes, I can play, junkie.”

He flexed again, purpling fingers so swollen they were barely able to close. He almost asked if Andrew was okay, but closed his mouth before he could give voice to the thought. It was a stupid thing to ask. They were both broken things.

They subbed on with fifteen minutes left in the game. Andrew leaned against his goal post and gave Neil a bored looking salute. Neil grabbed his racquet, dodged in and out of the other players and easily scored three goals in five minutes. Andrew barely moved and still swatted everything on his end away. Neil would have congratulated him if it had taken any effort at all on his part. Instead, he focused all his energy on running as fast as he possibly could and trying to burn out some of the rage.

Then Alex rushed him.

Neil was fast, but not fast enough. He vaguely registered slamming against the court wall, and sinking to the ground, then there was no sound but the hollow ringing in Neil’s ears. He blinked and everything was slow motion, he blinked again and one of his ears popped and a whistle was being blown, he blinked again and pushed himself up off the floor, he blinked again and saw his helmet rocking slowly, five feet away.

_Fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh–_

Coach was kneeling next to him, one hand on Neil’s shoulder, the other tipping his head back as he stared at Neil’s eyes. Neil tried to shove him off, but Beltran held him steady.

“No, I’m fine, I’m fine, coach, I’m–”

“Shut up, Josten,” Beltran muttered. He pulled a pen light out of one pocket and shining it into Neil’s eyes like he was a fucking doctor, fucking christ, Neil needed his helmet back on, he tried to scrabble across the floor for it but Beltran wouldn’t let go, he tried–

“Alright,” Beltran finally said, letting go. “Not bleeding. Want to keep playing?”

Neil dove for his helmet and pushed it back on his head. His chest was too tight, and his vision was spotty, and he couldn’t breathe...he couldn’t breathe...he–

“Josten?”

Neil managed to nod his head, Beltran jogged off the court, the whistle blew, and Neil was standing there holding a beat-up racquet while the rest of the boys dashed after the ball. He looked out towards the bleachers. The camera crew was following the line of the ball, the line of the boys.

He looked behind him; the other camera was pointed directly at him.

Neil tried to suck in another breath but it was ice in his lungs, shredding his throat and freezing every nerve in his body.

The goal at one end lit up red. There was cheering coming from somewhere but it was hollow against the buzzing in Neil’s ears.

They saw.

 _What ifs_ played through his brain alongside a litany of his mother yelling _stupid, stupid boy_ , and for just a second he was Nathaniel again, standing in the hallway of their Dutch Colonial Baltimore home, listening to the deadly voice of his father and the grating anger of his mother as he tried to be small, small, small.

“Neil!”

He looked towards the sound, to where Andrew was leaning against the goalpost, pointing his racquet directly at Neil’s chest.

“Go.”

Someone barrelled by him and Neil stepped forward, one foot, then the next, then he was running down the court as fast as he could, snagging the ball from the opposing striker and running back. He scored and the goal lit red and the hangar cheered and still he could hear his father’s voice.

He ran.

Alex was on him again and Neil dropped to his knees, sliding beneath the length of his racquet, and it was so fast that Alex had no time to stop, just slammed straight into the wall with a grunt of pain.

He ran.

Andrew was in the goal, stick smashing against the ground, rocking from foot to foot, easily catching a ball launched his way and then throwing it with all his might towards Neil.

He ran.

The buzzer that ended the game wasn’t loud enough to cover the hiss in Neil’s ears. It was Andrew who threw out a hand and yanked him to a stop, hard enough that Neil had to catch his breath.

“Cut it out,” Andrew hissed.

Neil tried to say something back, but his teeth were glued together, and the panic was still racing hot through his veins, and he was _angry_. He was so fucking angry and there was nowhere for any of it to go. He followed Andrew off the court, tossed his racquet against the plexiglass side, and barrelled his way past two reporters who were already interviewing Max and one of the other strikers. “Neil Josten?” one of them called, trying to stick a mic in his face. Neil didn’t turn around to look, just stalked towards the bleachers, ripping off his bracers and throwing them into the bin. He wanted the padding off too, he wanted to be able to breathe again, but he couldn’t without removing his helmet first and _no_.

Not again.

Andrew was still beside him, and every one of his movements was just as jerky and angry and wrong as Neil’s. He tossed his gear into the bin, and grabbed a cup of water, downing it quickly. There were cameras everywhere, and flashing lights, and the roar of the hangar, and electric energy thrumming through the exy team–the bad sort, the sort that ends in fire.

“AJ!”

Andrew’s fist closed around the styrofoam cup, smashing it into a tight little ball. Neil looked back up at the bleachers. The jackass in the uniform was standing in the third row of bleachers right where he shouldn’t be and was grinning down at them both.

“Family?” Neil muttered. He’d asked thirty minutes ago, but thirty minutes ago there’d been nothing but anxious desperation roiling in his gut. Now there was something far worse.

“Ignore him,” Andrew said. He threw the destroyed cup towards the plexiglass but it just bounced harmlessly against the concrete floor of the hangar.

Neil turned back towards family. “Hey.”

Somewhere behind him, one of the boys started shouting. Across the hangar, the stomping and yelling of the inmates was reaching a new level of noise and somewhere, whistles blew. Andrew snagged a hand in his jersey, but Neil pulled away easily, cupped his hands against his helmet and called again. “Hey! You! Jackass!”

Jackass grinned, showing perfect white teeth, then he looked from side to side and took another step down. Some of the other families were following him now, and suddenly the crowd surged over the line, climbing the rows of bleachers until they were all standing on the floor with the exy team. There were whistles being blown, and shouts of security guards, and bodies pressing bodies pressing bodies–

Andrew yanked Neil just as a fist came flying towards him. Neil took it on the shoulder instead of the chest, and he tried to spin and hit back, he kicked out, he yelled and yelled and yelled and he lost sight of Andrew. Neil shoved through people, trying to get back to the bleachers, but it was only seconds later that sirens began to blare and everyone around Neil dropped to the floor.

Neil dropped too.

A row of security escorted the families and news crew out of the hangar, but Neil couldn’t hear anything past the horrible whining of the alarm, he couldn’t see Andrew, and he couldn’t think past the vicious need to hurt that had curled around his lungs so tightly that it was becoming impossible to breathe.

***

The families and news crews were first to be escorted out of the hangar while the alarms still blared, and the boys all laid on the ground, bellies to cold concrete. Eventually security guards began leading one small group at a time back to their rooms.

Neil was one of the last clumps to go, and by the time one of the guards hauled him up roughly by his wrists and forced him forward, his legs were cramped and useless and his helmet was pinching so tightly against his ears that his head was screaming. Neil managed to rip the thing off once they were outside and he sucked in a few deep breaths of sticky California air before being pushed back into the main building and led back up the stairs and to his room.

Andrew was already there, pacing the floor, sweat-wet hair still plastered to the sides of his face.

His sweatshirt sleeves were rolled up, but he hastily yanked them down as soon as Neil stepped in the door, eyes narrowing angrily at the guard who stood behind Neil.

Neil didn’t say anything–just stepped into the room and waited for the door to slam closed, lock clicking loud in the bolt.

“You’re alive,” Andrew said.

There was something there, something desperate about the way he said the word _alive_. It was packed full of more emotion than any word Neil had ever heard him speak. His eyes flicked from Neil’s face, to his feet, then back up again.

Neil wanted to say something clever. He wanted to nudge at Andrew’s shoe, or sit down against his bed, or share truths, or do anything besides stare at each other this way–raw fear echoing back and forth for eternity between their eyes.

His throat hurt.

His head hurt.

Neil wiped the back of his hand against his forehead. He could feel the gritty salt residue left over from sweat, and he could taste it at the corners of his mouth. “Too much to hope for a shower?” It might have been something clever if it didn’t sound so horribly sad.

“Lockdowns usually last two days,” Andrew said. He was still standing right in the middle of the floor, not moving, not taking his eyes off of Neil. His fingers twitched at his sides–one hand was black and purple from the bruising.

Two days.

Two days of no running. Neil could already feel the walls of the cell closing in on him and he struggled to pull in a breath around the burgeoning panic in his throat only to find that rage was rising up in him again, quick to take its place.

“Stop it,” Andrew said.”

“What kind of family is this one?” Neil asked bitterly, even though he already knew the answer. _I’ve been in 12 foster homes,_ Andrew had said. _Some of them were better than others. None of them were nice._

Andrew just cocked his head, eyes narrowing to pinpricks. “Cass Spear, foster mom. Richard Spear, foster dad. Drake Spear, foster brother.”

“Did Richard–”

Andrew huffed a laugh, then finally moved, crossing the distance between the two of them in a heartbeat and shoving Neil hard enough that he hit the door with a smack of sound.

“Richard Spear is useless. He is nothing.”

“Then–”

Andrew leaned in so close Neil could feel breath puffing against his mouth. Andrew pressed a finger against Neil’s lips. “No.”

Then he turned around and walked over to the sink, turned it on, and ducked his head under the water.

Neil clenched his fists at his sides and forced himself to stay where he was, to not stomp across the room and shove Andrew back. “Fuck you,” he muttered.

“What was that?” Andrew scrubbed at his hair, then pulled his head back out again and shook like a wet dog, sending water droplets far enough that they spattered across Neil’s face.

“Fuck you. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to...every time something gets serious you don’t get to shut down and decide this isn’t something.”

“This isn’t something,” Andrew said slowly. He grabbed the hem of his sweatshirt and pulled it up, drying his face quickly before dropping it again. “This?” He gestured between himself and Neil. “Is nothing.”

“Fuck you,” Neil said again. Everything was boiling over–anger, fear, rage, violence, fear, fear, _fear_. He took an angry step forward, but Andrew just settled hip to sink, crossed his arms, and watched Neil with a bored stare.

Except his face was entirely too still, entirely too stiff to be bored. He was masking everything, just like he always did, and Neil was sick and fucking tired of it. “You’re afraid to feel,” Neil spit out. “You’re afraid to feel, and you’re afraid to be human, and you’re afraid to be weak.”

Andrew’s jaw ticked. “Watch it, Josten,” he growled, low and feral.

“No. Stop pulling your bullshit. You have secrets. I have secrets. You want to crack me open and learn everything you can but you keep me at arms length, because you’re _scared._ ”

Andrew didn’t move, and Neil didn’t care. He barreled forward, stopping only when he was a single breath away from Andrew’s face. Reaching out and cupping his hands around Andrew’s cheeks, just shy of actually touching him, Neil stared.

Andrew’s breath was a long, controlled thing, and his eyes were flashing with anger, but he still didn’t move.

“I buried my Mom on the California coast,” Neil said. Something tore inside of him at the admission, and for just a second, he swore he could smell burning flesh. He didn’t look away from Andrew. “My Dad’s men found us outside of Seattle and we barely made it out. She was hurt. I drove, and drove, and drove, and I didn’t know she was dying. She just kept telling me to go, so I did, that’s what I always did, I listened to her and I trusted her and I did what she said.” Neil swallowed hard. “She died in the car seat. I didn’t hear her take a last breath, I didn’t even know, she just...died. Boom. Gone. Easy. We were in California, and I pulled off the road and drove to the ocean and I remember the moon was shining so bright I could see my footsteps in the sand. And I tried to pull her out. Did you know that skin sticks to leather? I guess there was a lot of blood that dried or something. But parts of her stuck to that car seat and ripped off and so I just stopped and lit the whole fucking thing on fire because that’s all I know how to do. Run and destroy things. I’m really fucking good at it. That enough for you? No? Here’s more. I’ve been Alex, and Stefan, and Ben, and Emanuel, and Chris. I’ve lived in New York, and North Dakota, and Germany, and Switzerland, and France. I speak French. I speak German. I’m learning to speak Spanish because after I get out, I figure Mexico is as good a place as any to hide. Haven’t been there yet. You going to keep that secret too? Have you ever–”

“Neil,” Andrew breathed out, voice ragged and hoarse.

“Not Josten? Neil now? Glad I have your fucking attention. Have you ever been shot on your way back from school? Have you ever watched a body being taken apart, limb by limb, slice by slice? Do you know what it sounds like when tendons are severed? It sounds like meat, like any other animal, like go to a butcher shop and ask for a cut of beef and it sounds exactly the same. But this isn’t a contest. Your life is fucked, my life is fucked, we’re stuck in a jail cell the size of a closet, and night after night you hear me gasp awake from shit that I can’t stop thinking about, and night after night I hear you do the same, but you don’t actually make noise, did you know that? You breathe heavy and deep when you’re sleeping and then you wake up and there’s nothing. You hold it all back. Just like you’re doing now.”

Neil was breathing hard now, just like when he woke up from those nightmares, and his hands were starting to shake where they were cupped around Andrew’s face, and he could smell Andrew’s sweat from the game, and he could smell his own sweat from the game, but he refused to step away.

Andrew watched him for a long time. Neil watched his heartbeat flutter at his throat. He saw his eyelashes flutter on every blink. He saw his jaw tightening even further, and he saw the moment that it relaxed enough that Andrew had room to speak.

“Why?”

Swallowing hard, Neil finally dropped his hands. “This isn’t a game anymore. This isn’t truth for fucking truth. You know enough about me to get me killed, and I know enough about you…” Neil squeezed his eyes closed, then took a small step back. “You started this.”

“This is nothing,” Andrew said.

“Yeah. You said that.” Neil fisted his hands in his hair, pulled hard for just a second, then released the breath he was holding deep in his chest. It hurt. Everything hurt. “Just–”

“I’m meeting my brother on Tuesday.”

Neil looked up.

“I’m not going to talk about the Spears,” Andrew said.

“Okay.”

“I don’t think I want to meet him.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Andrew nodded, but his brow furrowed for a second. “This is nothing,” he said quietly. “And I still hate you.”

“Okay.”

Andrew watched him for a long moment, then he pulled his sweatshirt up again and wiped at his face. “Sink,” he said, voice muffled underneath the thick cotton. “Best shower you’re going to get.”

He walked over to the dresser, and started rifling through the drawers for clean clothes. Neil stepped up to the sink and looked at himself in the warped mirror for only a second before he had to look back down again. He cut on the water, ducked his head underneath it and scrubbed the dried sweat from his face.

 _I hate you,_ Andrew had said. _I want to kiss you._


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY Part 3 of Andrew's terrible, horrible, no good, very bad weekend. Only this time it isn't quite so terrible and horrible....
> 
> so I THOUGHT Aaron was making an appearance, but then I went off on whatever tangent THIS is and so that will be next time. I have a problem called I-don't-outline-anything-and-therefore-characters-do-whatever-the-fuck-they-want-willy-nilly-and-I-have-no-control. Whoops.
> 
> I hope you guys are all doing wonderfully. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for all the support on this fic. I just get so excited to post these chapters!
> 
> <3 Coop
> 
> *There's an exchange between Neil and Andrew that happens in this chapter regarding self-harm. This isn't a graphic or explicit conversation, but just a heads up that it's there.

He was bored.

Neil was busy sulking in the corner with his little Spanish to English dictionary that he’d pulled from the library three days ago, the toilet was running again, Andrew was not thinking about Aaron, he was definitely not thinking about Aaron, Neil was breathing underneath him so he wasn’t thinking about that either, not really, and okay.

He wasn’t so much bored as he was frustrated, and _nervous_.

Drake was gone now. Andrew knew that, the mass riot spared him another fucking visitation, but Aaron was going to be in the city. Maybe was already in the city. And Drake…

Drake wouldn’t…

Andrew knew it was ridiculous to be worrying, but the fact is, Drake _might_. Drake had spent two years fucking with Andrew’s head, so even though Andrew knew it was unlikely, and knew it was unreasonably, the fact that he couldn’t rule it out with 100% certainty meant that he couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility.

And it was making him sick to his stomach.

So he thought about Neil instead.

Neil yelling at him.

_You know enough about me to get me killed._

It stood to reason that if that really was the case, then Andrew also knew enough about Neil to get _himself_ killed, and wouldn’t that be a way to go? Gunned down by the mafia. Or...sliced down by the mafia. By Neil’s father. With...something sharp.

That made him sick to his stomach too.

So he thought about Neil again, but this time his icy blue eyes. The intensity of his glare when he got angry. The way his hair hung sweaty in his eyes when he took off his helmet during exy practice. The way Andrew had straddled him. Had kissed him. The way Neil’s hands had tightened to fists at his sides but never once moved.

That didn’t make him sick, but now his stomach was doing that warm, pulling, _want_ thing, so no good.

If he lay all the way down on his bed and stuck his legs straight up, Andrew could push his feet against the ceiling.

So he did that a few times.

He was still ~~frustrated~~ , ~~nervous~~ , bored, so he kicked it instead.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

It had been three hours since the game, two hours since the lockdown, one hour and forty seven minutes since Neil yelled at him.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

One hour and forty six minutes since Neil yelled at him.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

“Oh my god, please fucking stop,” Neil growled from below.

_Thump._

_Thump. Thump._

Neil rustled below him and a second later, the dictionary flew right at Andrew’s head. He threw his arms up in time, so it bounced off his shoulder and then fell back to the ground–sad and beaten cover bending in on itself.

“You should treat your books better,” Andrew said. Then he kicked the ceiling once more for good measure.

“And you should be less of an asshole.”

True.

Andrew knew he should apologize for...well...something...but saying _I’m sorry_ wasn’t something he really knew how to do in general. He knew he was crazy. He knew that some days were not talking days, and some days were. That some days there was so much rage building up inside him that he needed to hurt someone, and most days, that someone was himself. He knew that he wasn’t being fair to Neil, but fair (like apologies) was also not a concept he’d ever been intimately familiar with.

Neil had given him everything, Andrew was holding back, and he knew this, but he didn’t really know how to fix it.

Sighing, Andrew pushed himself up on his bed, and swung his legs around so they were hanging off the edge. He peered down at Neil. “Mexico, huh?”

Neil’s nose wrinkled for a second in confusion.

“Running to. You, running to Mexico.”

“Oh. I don’t know. Maybe. Whatever. Forget it.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, I won’t forget it.”

Neil threw his head back and heaved an enormous sigh because he was dramatic as fuck.

He stood up and leaned against the bed. Andrew waited a moment, but Neil just crossed his arms and glared back again.

“Say something in Spanish.”

“Eres un maldito gilipollas y te odio.”

“What does that mean?”

Neil just smirked at him, then flipped him off.

Dramatic. As fuck.

“Teach me?” Andrew asked, because he’s ~~frustrated~~ , ~~nervous~~ , bored, because he still had months to go in this place, and because Neil was more interesting than anything else here.

Fuck.

_Neil was more interesting than anything else here._

As far as his ideas went, this was right up there with kissing Neil.

Bad. Bad. Bad.

“Teach you Spanish?” Neil asked, brow furrowing. “I hardly know it.”

“You knew it well enough to rattle off...whatever that was.”

“Yeah well, curse words are easy. Roll off the tongue.”

Of course he was cursing. Andrew looked up at the clock. 6:58 PM. Two hours until lights out. Two days of this. He’d done longer in solitary, but he hated that too. Exy helped him more than he’d ever admit to anyone, and he was dreading not having the option to _move_. “Hola. Uno, dos, tres, yada yada yada. Gracias. Por favor. Dónde está la biblioteca? Tengo un gato en mis pantalones.”

Neil was staring at him, mouth slightly open, head quirked. “Uh…”

“I know more, but it’s mostly bullshit like that.”

“Why...do you...a cat? In your pants?”

Andrew shrugged. “Had a foster brother at one point who was taking Spanish. Taught me random shit.” Also taught him not to scream. Not to cry. To close his eyes. To–

Andrew blinked, then shoved himself off the top bunk and landed next to Neil. “So?”

“So…”

“Teach me?”

“This is a stupid idea.”

“Yeah. I know. But do you have anything better to do? Look at it this way. If you decide to run, rabbit, run, down to Mexico you’ll have conversational practice.”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you have anything better to do, _Neil_?” Andrew asked, purposely drawing out his name for the sole purpose of being annoying.

Neil swallowed. His eyes flicked down to the book on the floor, then back up to Andrew. For a second he looked like he was going to step forward.

For a second, Andrew wanted to step forward too.

Neil swallowed again, then shrugged. “Fine.”

Bad idea. But Andrew smiled.

***

Breakfast was delivered the next morning at exactly 8 AM. Neil had been pacing the room since 6:30 and Andrew had been death-glaring him for almost as long.

They ate in silence, then took turns over at the sink scrubbing themselves as best they could with the crappy hand soap in the dispenser.

Lockdown sucked.

Then Neil grabbed his dictionary, his notebook, and sat down on the floor. “Coming?”

Andrew was halfway up the bed ready to bury himself under blankets and try to sleep more. “It’s 8:15 in the morning.”

“Yeah. And normally, you’d be downstairs in the cafeteria, and then you’d be to the showers, and then you’d have school, or exy, or therapy, or whatever else bullshit they scheduled for you. You’re the one who wanted to do this. So sit.”

Andrew briefly considered balling up his blanket and strangling Neil with it. Briefly. But Neil was right. This was his idea.

His bad idea.

Rolling his eyes, he climbed back down, then walked over to his side of the room and sank down against the wall.

Neil gave him an unimpressed look. “You’re going to need to look at this book too.”

“Your point?”

Rolling his eyes, Neil grabbed his stuff, pushed himself up, then sank down on Andrew’s wall, right next to him. “You’re an asshole.”

“Eres un maldito gilipollas y te odio,” Andrew parroted back. He slaughtered the pronunciation, but Neil was still gaping at him. Intended effect: achieved. Andrew saluted him, then grabbed the dictionary out of his hands. “Where do we start?”

“You–”

“Good memory.” Andrew tapped his head. “So?”

“Uh…” Neil reached over and snatched the book back. “So I was doing some stuff on the library computers. Obviously we don’t have that for two days. So I kind of figured I’d just work on noun vocab words in this for now.”

“Rote memorization. My favorite.”

“Hilarious. Alright, I was starting with city stuff. You know. Bathroom, hotel, directions, bicycle, bus–”

“Not _Help me I’ve been shot_?”

Neil scowled. “Fuck you, we don’t have to do this.”

“Sorry.” He wasn’t. Not really. Because when Neil got angry, the tips of his ears turned red, just like they did when he got nervous. And sometimes he scratched the back of his neck, just like he was doing now. And sometimes Andrew watched his fingers there, then followed the line of his neck up to his jaw. And sometimes Andrew watched him swallow.

“Andrew?”

Fuck. “Yeah, sorry.”

And now Neil was watching him too. And the tips of his ears were still red. But Andrew was pretty sure he wasn’t actually all that angry...

Neil’s eyes dropped back down to the page and he launched into an explanation of subject pronouns.

Andrew watched the way his mouth moved.

It was going to be a very long two days.

***

They worked for two hours–bouncing vocab words back and forth and practicing the accent. Andrew’s was crap. Neil spoke like his tongue was coated in syrup, all of his vowels clustering together, mouth rounding naturally over the language.

It sucked.

By the end of the second hour, Andrew was paying more attention to flicking Neil’s knees, elbows, arms, and neck with his fingers, and Neil was scooting further and further away in annoyance.

By the time lunch came, they’d ended up back across from each other–Neil with his knees crossed and notes spread out all around him, Andrew, taking a break from drumming obnoxious rhythms into the cement floor with his hands to pull his tray towards him.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Neil huffed, taking a large bite of his stale-looking peanut butter sandwich. “I actually need to learn this shit.”

“Oh do you?” Andrew pulled the straw off of his chocolate milk container, ripped through the plastic at one end, then stuck it in his mouth and blew as hard as he could.

The plastic flew across the room and bounced harmlessly off of Neil’s nose.

Neil picked the garbage up, crumpled it between his fingers, then stuck it under his tray. “Funny.”

Shrugging, Andrew popped the straw through the foil top, then sucked the milk down in one, enormous gulp. “There are other places besides Mexico, rabbit.”

“Yeah. There are.”

“So? Why there?”

Neil swallowed another bite with a grimace. “What secret do I get in exchange?”

“As I gathered from your tirade last night, we are past that.”

“We? No. _I_ am past that. You still owe me. Fucker.”

“Language, Neil.”

“Sod-off you bloody fucking bastard cocksucker.”

Andrew looked up from his milk. “Sod. Off.”

“Mom’s British.”

“Mum.”

Neil gave him a withering glare. “I need to head South anyway. _Mom_ had different drop spots with extra cash, new IDs, shit like that. One’s in Arizona. So I head that way, grab the stuff, keep going until I cross the border. Then I can disappear again.”

“What’s your new name, going to be? José? Jesús? Carlos?”

“You are seriously an asshole.”

Andrew reached for his sandwich. It was exactly as stale as it looked. He managed a full bite, then swallowed around the chalky residue multiple times as he tried to swallow. “Guess my brother lived in San Jose. Isn’t that hilarious? 40 miles away from me. This asshole cop saw him at a Raiders game and thought it was me. And that is the story of how I found out that I had a brother.” He grins down at his sandwich but it’s fragmented, and stilted, and wrong.

“So he’s like...an hour away from here?”

“Not anymore,” Andrew muttered. He considered taking another bite of sandwich but it was disgusting, and now he was apparently invested in this little truth for truth, so he didn’t have it in himself to force food. “Tilda moved him pretty much as soon as she found out. Took him to South Carolina. She’s got family there.” He peeled apart the bread, watching the gummy peanut butter unstick. “I have family there. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

Andrew looked up. Neil reached for the apple on his tray and took an enormous bite. “What?”

“That.” Neil waved a hand towards him, then took another bite. “You’re wallowing.”

Andrew grit his teeth and barely, barely refrained from chucking his entire tray at Neil’s head. “ _Wallowing?”_

“Yeah. Look it up.”

“I know what the fuck wallowing means.”

“Oh. Good. Then I assume you already know how annoying it is, but just really like the sound of your own voice.”

Neil was smirking his stupid, asshole smirk, and this was it, Andrew was really going to kill him. “You asked me for a truth.”

“Okay, fair. So you found out your twin lived near you, but then your fuckhead, sorry, _wanker,_ mom moved him across the country because, I don’t know, presumably she fucking sucks. And now you’re sad.”

He was going to kill him, he was going to kill him, he was going to kill him–

“Hey, Andrew?” Neil set his apple down. “She sucks. That sucks. Whole thing is shit. You see him in two days?”

Andrew opened his mouth, then closed it again. Weighed his options. He could still throw the tray. The bruise from practice last week had almost completely faded from Neil’s face, so it was about time he earned a new one. Or he could answer the question.

“Yeah.”

“You eating that?” Neil pointed towards Andrew’s sandwich, and that was it, that was too far. Andrew smashed the bread back together, then angrily took an enormous bite.

And Neil had the audacity to look fucking please.

“I hate you,” Andrew muttered around a mouthful of peanut butter.

Neil gave a perfectly asinine self-contented nod, finished off his apple, then washed his hands.

***

By 2 PM, Neil was pacing.

He didn’t say anything, just walked and walked and walked. Seven steps forward. Turn. Seven steps back. Neil was a bundle of restless energy, his fists tightened to little white balls of fury. Andrew felt the same. The last lockdown had been over a year ago–long before Neil had arrived. Solitary was doable only because no one else was there to see Andrew break.

This was misery.

By 2:30, Andrew joined him.

Seven steps forward.

Turn.

Seven steps back.

There wasn’t enough room to tire out, but Neil gave in first, retreating to the corner of his bed with his copy of Les Miserables.

Andrew stopped soon after, but then threw himself into sit-ups, then push-ups, then squats, then anything he could think of from his days in middle school gym class.

“Show off,” Neil muttered.

He didn’t take his eyes off of the page when Andrew gave him a salute, just drew his knees up to his chest and propped the book against them.

So Andrew flipped him off and kept going.

By the time dinner came, his arms were burning and he was sweating hard. They ate quietly this time–shoveling spoonfuls of powdered mashed potatoes and chili in their mouths. Neil was still reading as he ate. Andrew had long passed his capacity for silence, so he crumpled up a napkin and threw it at him.

Neil just batted it out of the air without blinking.

So he tried another avenue. “That book sucks.”

Holding out a finger, Neil finished the line he was on, lips moving silently around the words. Then he set it down. “Have you ever read it?”

“I’m not an animal. 8th grade English.”

“Have you ever read it in French?”

Andrew frowned, then reached across with his foot and pulled the book towards him. He picked it up and thumbed through the pages.

French.

“Thought you were fleeing to Mexico,” he said.

“Library selections aren’t that great. Takes me longer to read in French. And it’s good practice.”

“You ever get tired of running?”

Neil gave an unhappy looking shrug. “Always.”

“So stop.”

“And what. Die? I’m not suicidal, thanks.”

He gave a pointed look towards Andrew’s arms, and Andrew had to fight with everything he had to keep still and not tug on his sweatshirt sleeves. “This isn’t that,” he growled.

“Could have fooled me.”

This is why he shouldn’t engage Neil in conversation. Andrew bit down hard enough to hurt, but he didn’t look away. “Control,” he finally said, word pushed out between clenched teeth.

Neil didn’t say anything.

Andrew swallowed hard. “I don’t...fuck. It’s just a control thing.”

Neil’s eyes narrowed for a second, parsing the information. Then he shrugged. “Okay.”

Like it was simple. Like it was nothing. Like it was Andrew’s choice and that was _okay_.

Neil stood up and walked his tray over to the door.

Then went back to reading.

At 8:55 PM, Andrew wandered over to the sink to brush his teeth and scrub the sweat off himself. Neil followed him–ducking down underneath the faucet to drink while Andrew dried his face on his sweatshirt. When he came back up, he didn’t say anything, just watched Andrew through the mirror.

This was…

This was right back to bad idea territory. This was _wrong_. He wasn’t supposed to...fuck, he wasn’t supposed to want this, everything was just...

Neil turned around, still watching him.

Andrew pushed his wet hair out of his face. His eyes flicked up to the clock on the wall, then back down to Neil’s face. “It’s a minute until lights out.”

“I know.”

“So–”

“You wanted to kiss me a few days ago.”

Andrew swallowed. “Yeah. We did that.”

“Once.” He didn’t move, and his eyes didn’t leave Andrew’s face.

“I’m not…” Andrew ground his teeth together again. “I…”

“I want to,” Neil said. “Again, I mean. If you–”

Andrew stepped forward, crowding him against the back of the sink. Neil put one hand up for just a second, stopping just shy of grabbing Andrew’s arm. Then he took a deep breath and dropped it, gripping the sink behind him.

Andrew could smell him–the sweat that he still hadn’t been able to wash away, the mint of their toothpaste. And this time, Neil pressed forward, Neil pressed lips to Andrew’s, Neil pushed hard enough that Andrew had to reach out and wrap a hand around the back of his neck to keep his balance.

They kissed, and Andrew threaded his fingers through the back of Neil’s hair, and Neil sucked in a shuddery breath, and Andrew pushed closer.

They kissed and Neil’s knuckles tightened to white against the steel sink, and Andrew slotted a knee between his legs and Andrew set his hand on top of Neil’s hand and squeezed tighter because all he could think about was how they were _this close_ and it still wasn’t enough.

They kissed and the buzzer rang, and the lights flickered out, and for a long second his eyes couldn’t adjust and he pulled back, but Neil chased him down again.

They kissed until they were both out of breath, and finally Neil was the one to break it off.

Andrew didn’t move–but he watched Neil, the glow of the EXIT sign illuminating shadows of his nose, his lips, his eyes.

Neil sucked in another breath and gave a shaky looking grin. “Ummm…”

It sounded like nothing more than a buzz of sound, then it dropped off again.

Andrew finally stepped back. He was frustratingly hard in his sweatpants, and his eyes flicked down. Neil was the same.

Neil gave an embarrassed little laugh, then sidestepped away from the sink and walked back to the bed. “Ummm…”

There it was again. The almost.

“We could…” Neil stopped. Chewed on his lower lips for a second. “We could do...this. Again.”

“This is nothing,” Andrew said, because he didn’t know what else to say, because he suddenly felt helpless, and hopeless, and more than a little terrified.

Neil’s eyebrows rose. He cocked his head, kicked at the bathroom divider. “This isn’t nothing.”

Then he turned and walked back to the bunk beds. “Goodnight. Andrew.”

_Andrew, Andrew, Andrew._

Andrew cut on the sink, splashed water into his face, tried to breathe, tried to think about things that were not Neil.

Pizza.

Videogames.

Exy.

Homework.

Aaron.

Mafia.

Neil.

Neil.

Neil.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: Gratuitous use of the word 'fuck' (I counted. It's 30 times in 3300 words. Whoops.)
> 
> It's...AARON TIME. And Andrew being angsty time, but, you know, that's every chapter. 
> 
> As always, hi everyone, thanks for reading, thank you so much for all of the wonderful comments. I keep going back and rereading them! I love you all <3
> 
> Hope everyone is staying safe out there in the crazy weather-be it cold, or snow, or power outages, or all three!

On Tuesday morning, the doors unlocked and their cell block was led down to the showers, one hall at a time. Andrew stood under the warm spray of water for the entire five minutes that he was allotted, scrubbing himself furiously and not thinking about Neil.

Which was difficult.

They hadn’t kissed again since Saturday night, but Neil kept watching him with his obnoxious I-know-better-than-you eyes, and so Andrew tried to ignore him because he was fucking annoying, but also he kissed really well.

Sort of well.

Better than sort of well.

Fuck.

Andrew leaned his forehead against the cool cinderblock of the shower stall and squeezed his eyes closed. The other boy he’d kissed in his cell, the one who he didn’t like to think about, _him_? He was soft. Quiet. Almost-fragile. Andrew kissed him, and he melted against Andrew, and it was interesting enough, until he broke the rules.

Neil wasn’t like that.

Neil was hard. He pushed forward, he bit back, he was all aggression and desperation and he didn’t melt, he burned.

Andrew couldn’t get enough of it.

The shower cut off above him and he was definitely not ready to come out yet. The exact opposite of ready.

Fuck.

His hands tightened to fists, and he squeezed his eyes closed and he thought about the oatmeal they’d had for breakfast, sloppy, clumpy, mushy oatmeal. With a spork. And a brown banana. That Neil ate, because Neil ate everything, it was some natural fight-or-flight instinct that he’d learned on the run–never waste food. Idiot.

Wait.

Oatmeal.

Oatmeal, oatmeal, oatmeal–

“Minyard!” One of the guards yelled, banging against the shower stall.

“Fuck,” Andrew muttered. He grabbed the clean pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt that he’d hung over the door and quickly threw them on, pulling his sweatshirt down as far as he could.

Fuck Neil Josten.

They marched back to the cell, Andrew thought about oatmeal, everything was fine.

***

“So. Brother?” Neil reached across the desk to grab the Spanish text book he’d pulled from one of the classrooms and started flipping through it.

The library was almost entirely empty–now that lockdown was over, most everyone was using rec time to burn energy down in the rec room or outside in the yard. Andrew had been half-surprised to see Neil head straight for the library instead of starting his laps, but when asked, Neil had just shrugged, pointed towards the enormous group of boys that had already taken over the field, and then headed past the security guard and up the stairs.

And Andrew followed, because he figured it was harmless enough but now he was starting to feel the beginning tendrils of panic about the meeting later, and Neil was watching him with _that look_ , the I-know-exactly-what-you’re-thinking look, and Andrew didn’t like it one bit.

Neil reached across the table and tapped his pencil against Andrew’s knuckles.

Andrew pulled away. “I have one, yes,” he muttered.

“You meet him today.”

Andrew shot him a glare, then looked down at his notebook. “So Spanish. Voy. Voy...voyest.”

“No.”

“Voya...ger”

“Definitely no.”

“Voyeur.”

“Brother.”

Andrew scowled, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I thought we needed to practice verb conjugation.”

“We did. And you are very purposely fucking around.”

“Voy-lleyball.”

“Andrew.”

The familiar rage was back, starting to boil underneath his skin. They’d had two days of staring at each other, and studying spanish, and occasionally kissing, and Andrew had mostly managed not to think about today, about Tuesday, about _Aaron_.

And now it was here.

And now Neil was being a fucking asshole about it.

“Fine,” he growled. “Yes. Meeting with brother at 2. You know this. You live with me. Why are you suddenly obsessed with pressing me on it?”

Neil flicked him an irritated look. “I thought we were being honest now.”

“I am being honest. I have a meeting with my brother. I never promised to share all my deepest, darkest emotions with you.”

“So they’re deep and dark?”

Andrew shoved the table hard enough that Neil shot backwards to get away and then ended up toppling over in his seat.

“Fuck,” he muttered, flipping Andrew off.

“Fuck you,” Andrew hissed, returning the gesture just as the security guard yelled his name.

“Minyard! Out. Library privileges revoked for the day.”

Neil’s eyes tightened. He looked almost apologetic, but Neil was like Andrew, he wasn’t cut out for the word _sorry_.

Andrew flipped him off again.

“You want solitary?” the guard asked, wrapping a meaty hand around Andrew’s arm and yanking him forward.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Andrew muttered. “You all ever get tired of saying my name?”

“Not yet,” the guard said, not looking at him, but still pulling him out the library door.

“You should try Josten. Has a nice ring. Josten. Josssssten. JosTEN.”

“Shut up, Minyard.”

Andrew grit his teeth, and turned his attention entirely to not yanking his arm out of the guard’s grip.

The rec room wasn’t as full as usual–most of the kids were still outside. Once freed, Andrew discreetly kicked a few chairs near some of the younger boys and earned himself a couple of terrified glances. Then he settled himself down in a blue plastic chair in front of the TV.

The pickings were slim just like every other day. There was some courtroom show going on–some D-class version of Judge Judy who made liberal use of a very loud gavel and very clearly loved the sound of his own voice. Andrew wished he could go back to the cell room and be by himself for just half a minute, but that wasn’t going to happen for another five months and change, so he pulled a knee to his chest, propped his chin on it, watched Judge Whotever light into some deadbeat about providing child support to his deadbeat teenage wife who was pregnant with twins.

He wondered if he had a father.

He wondered if Tilda would have kept him if that father had paid her money.

Andrew scowled and watched as the TV cut to commercial.

The kids behind him were getting excited about something, murmurs of “No way,” and “Do you think we’ll see ourselves?” becoming audible. Andrew turned and glared.

“What.” One of the kids said, no question, just a wrinkled nose and a frown on his face.

“Shut up.”

“Make me,” the kid said.

Andrew’s eyebrows rose. “You must be new here.”

“No. I know who you are. And you don’t scare me.”

Andrew lunged at him, his friends went flying, and asshole kid with a death wish just grinned. “Do your worst.”

“Minyard!” Alvarez called from the guard station.

“Fucks sake,” Andrew muttered, then he stood up from his chair and wandered his way outside where he spent the rest of rec hour pacing the perimeter of the field and feeling entirely too much like his asshole roommate.

Fuck Neil Josten.

***

Neil had happy-Neil-run-time after lunch, so Andrew finally got the room to himself for a blissful hour which he spent staring straight up, kicking the ceiling, and silently panicking.

Apparently having Neil nearby had actually cut down on the amount of time Andrew spent internally spiraling out of control, who’d’ve thunk it, not Andrew that’s for fucking sure, _fuck_ Neil Josten.

Fuck him.

Aaron was probably already here.

So was Luther.

They had to go through security and sometimes that took twenty minutes, but sometimes it took longer if there were a lot of people so most folks showed up an hour early which meant he was probably here.

Maybe already sitting at one of the blue tables.

 _Thump. Thump. Thump._ Andrew seethed. He’d sent a letter back. He’d told Aaron to fuck off. And Aaron kept trying because he was an idiot, and then Luther got involved, so now they got to do whatever _this_ was.

Andrew had gotten himself thrown in here _specifically_ to keep Aaron out of Oakland, and now, well. Wasn’t this just a great big happy fucking family reunion? Fuck.

_Fuck._

“Fuck!” Andrew yelled, then punctuated it with a kick as hard as he could. It did nothing, because he was kicking fucking cement. So he rolled over and pulled back the mattress enough that he could hook his wrist over the sharp edge. He grit his teeth, then yanked back as hard as he could.

It wasn’t sharp enough.

He tried it again, and again, but it didn’t cut into his skin, just left an abrasive scrape up and down his forearm. “Fuck!” Andrew yelled again. He couldn’t trash the room, he’d get thrown in solitary and get an extended sentence. He couldn’t fight the boy in the rec room, he’d get thrown in solitary and get an extended sentence. He couldn’t ask the asshole library guard not to touch him because he’d get thrown in solitary and get an extended sentence.

Andrew sank down on the floor and smacked his fist into his thigh as hard as he possibly could.

He couldn’t say no to Luther.

Smack.

He couldn’t say no to Drake.

Smack.

He couldn’t say no.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

It wasn’t enough.

Andrew pushed up the sleeve of his sweatshirt and bit into his wrist. He squeezed his eyes closed and counted to twenty. Tried to breathe like Betsy always told him to. Restarted at five because he remembered the way he sounded his voice sounded when he said the word “please” and so his heartbeat went up and he couldn’t breathe, and he just wanted to hurt. Restarted at 8 because he could no longer feel the pain of his teeth in his skin and so he bit down harder.

Made it to 20.

Made it to 40.

Made it to 60.

Andrew finally let go of his wrist. There were shiny and jagged marks, and they were _his_.

 _He_ made it stop.

He’d calmed down, he was in control, it was going to be fine. He could talk to Betsy tomorrow, and it was going to be fine, he was going to be fine, this was fine, fuck, that’s what Neil said too, fuck Neil Josten.

Fuck. Neil. Josten.

Andrew closed his eyes and kept counting until he could no longer hear his heart in his ears.

Eventually he stood up. Walked over to the little sink, cupped his hands under the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror.

His eyes were cold.

His mouth was flat.

He looked dangerous.

Andrew pressed a finger to the mirror, right against where his temple was reflected. “Bang,” he said quietly.

The door buzzed two minutes later, and Brian stuck his head in. “Visitation,” he said.

“Guards all at lunch?” Andrew mocked, following him out the door. “How’d you get escort privileges?”

Brian gave him an easy smile, then pulled out his clipboard. “Sometimes I get lucky,” he said, then tapped his pen against the paper all the way down the stairs.

***

They were sitting at the corner table–the same one that Andrew had sat at with Cass and Richard and Drake. He saw them first, so he got the privilege of Aaron’s eyes landing on him, widening, then looking right back down at his lap.

_Weak._

Brian cuffed him behind the bars, then led him all the way to the table

“Andrew!” Luther said, holding out a hand.

He was beaming like this was the absolute best way he could possibly imagine spending his afternoon, like this was something Andrew wanted too, like every second of this fucking moment wasn't carefully orchestrated by him to soothe his wounded ego. Andrew’s eyebrows rose at the offered hand, then very deliberately raised his cuffed hands and waited.

Luther’s nose wrinkled. He dropped his hand. “Sorry about that,” he said, then gave a deep chuckle. “Forget how these things work.”

Like he’d ever been in a fucking prison before in his life.

Andrew sat down on one of the hard seats, then leaned forward, chin in his hands, fixing his most _fuck-you_ stare towards Aaron.

Who didn’t even look up.

“We’re so happy to finally meet you,” Luther boomed. “Aaron has been so excited. Not every day you find out you have a long lost brother, is it?”

Aaron’s jaw tightened.

“Well. Right.” Luther looked between Andrew and Aaron. “Andrew, you have five months left is it?” It was a question, but he didn’t pause for Andrew to answer, just went barreling on. “When you’re released, we’ll get you home to South Carolina. Tilda, sorry, your mom, will want to meet you. I’m sorry she couldn’t make it out for this visit, things are a bit rocky, but it’s not because she doesn’t...not because of...well...you know. Things were hard on her when she found out. Hard on all of us. I know Aaron will be so happy to have you home. We all will! You’ll like South Carolina. Lots to–”

“I never said I was moving in with you,” Andrew said.

Luther paused. The corners of his eyes crinkled almost imperceptibly, then he kept going. “Well, that’s a decision that doesn’t have to be made today of course. You have family there, though. Aaron and your mom–”

“Not my mom.”

The crinkles grew. “Well, we’ll see, umm...yes, anyway, and you have a cousin there, my son, Nicky, although he’s about to leave for an exchange year in Germany, good boy Nicky, does very well in school, you’ll like him too, and my wife, your Aunt, she’s wonderful–”

He just went on and on and on with no room for anyone else. Which was fine by Andrew. He had no problem sitting here in silence. It was easier than speaking through the viscous hate that was clumping in his throat.

He studied Aaron while Luther waxed poetic about the public school system.

He had the same wavy blond hair as Andrew, but Andrew’s was hacked into the same style that every prisoner in the system had, whereas Aaron’s was cut closer at the sides, and left a little longer on top. Andrew had a spattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Aaron didn’t. Andrew had teeth marks chewed into his wrists, and jagged scars down his forearms, and both were covered by the long sleeves of his sweatshirt. Aaron wore a short sleeved black polo shirt, but his fingernails were chewed to shreds. Andrew had fading bruises on his knuckles from punching walls. Aaron had a black eye that was fading to a sickly green and yellow bruise.

“Who hit you?” Andrew asked, interrupting Luther’s monologue.

Aaron flinched, then started picking at the dead skin around his thumbnails. “No one.”

“Fall into a door?”

“I play exy.”

“They make helmets for that.”

“Yes, Aaron’s quite the little exy player,” Luther said, smacking a hand on Aaron’s back and making him scowl.

Andrew wanted to punch him in the face.

Luther just smiled bigger. “Tell him about your game last week!” he announced, leaning back and crossing his arms. He looked so fucking pleased with himself.

Aaron’s eyes flicked up to Andrew’s. “Won,” he said, voice pitching low..

He looked back down at his hands, but not before Andrew saw how dilated his pupils were.

“Who hit you?” Andrew asked again.

Aaron’s scowl grew more firm. “I told you. Exy.”

“And I told you, they have helmets.”

Aaron’s cheeks reddened, and his jaw clenched tight, and Andrew was suddenly watching himself on the brink of exploding, except Aaron just took a deep breath and pushed it all back down again.

Interesting.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Aaron finally said. His voice was completely dull–no sign of the fiery anger that Andrew had been expecting.

“Aaron!” Luther boomed.

“Sorry.”

Andrew lifted his cuffed hands and pointed a finger towards Aaron’s face. “Liar.”

“Andrew,” Luther said, quieter this time, but no less authoritative.

Andrew turned to him, eyebrows raised. “I was under the impression that this meeting was between Aaron and me. I was under the impression you were nothing but a facilitator. We have one hour. We’ve wasted twenty minutes of it on you and your incessant yapping. You’re like a dog. Bark. Bark. Bark. You should investigate shock collars. It would make you far more tolerable.”

Luther gaped at him and Aaron was looking at him with a mix of incredulity and confusion.

“Thank you, _Uncle_ ,” Andrew said, voice dripping with venom. “Now. Why does your face look like a punching bag?”

“Exy, asshole,” Aaron muttered.

“Fine. Exy. Moving on. What are you taking?”

Aaron’s brow wrinkled and he started picking at his thumbnail again.

“Excuse me?” Luther said.

“If I didn’t already make this clear, stay out of our fucking conversation,” Andrew hissed, not looking away from Aaron. “What drugs are you on?”

“Fuck you,” Aaron said. He reached up and rubbed at the bruise around his eye, then seemed to realize what he was doing and quickly dropped his hand again.

Andrew watched him for a long time in silence. The buzzer rang, signalling the halfway mark for visitation. Luther started talking again, hesitantly at first, but then more confidently as he realized that Andrew had no intention of speaking over him again.

He said, “I hear you play exy too, it would be so great for you to both be on the same team. Brotherly bonding and all that.”

He said, “Fall in Columbia is beautiful. The heat lessens and we get four straight months of gorgeous weather.”

He said, “Maria loves to cook, it will be so nice when you can join us for a family dinner.”

Aaron picked at his nails.

Andrew fought the urge to worry at his scabs underneath the table and instead started kicking the table leg closest to Luther over and over again, trying to see how long it would take for Luther to snap.

He didn’t.

He just kept talking.

Aaron’s jaw grew tighter and tighter though, so at least it was a win on one account.

When the buzzer finally rang again, Andrew stood up first. “I’ll come,” he growled.

Luther paused. “You’ll...come?”

“To Columbia. To live there.”

The smile that snaked across Luther’s face almost could have been genuine. Almost. “That’s wonderful!” he said.

Aaron was watching him again with hooded eyes. “What?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted, dearest brother of mine?”

“I…”

“I’ll teach you how to use a helmet,” Andrew jeered. Then he gave them both a two-fingered salute, and let Brian escort him back to the clump of boys lining up to be admitted back into the prison.

He looked back once.

Aaron was staring at him, head cocked ever so slightly, hazy eyes narrowed and angry.

Good.

***

When he got back to the room, Neil was curled up small on his bed, against the corner of the wall. He was back to reading Les Miserables, but he looked up as soon as Andrew walked in.

“What.” Andrew said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Andrew grunted, then went over to the sink and washed his hands and watched his reflection in the mirror. He reached up and traced a circle around his left eye–exactly where the bruise was on Aaron’s face. His finger left shining wet in its wake.

He dried his hands. Turned around.

Neil was still staring at him.

Andrew swallowed hard, then he walked over to the bunk beds. “Move,” he said.

Neil shoved over, squishing himself into the corner and setting his book down as Andrew crawled in.

“So. You have a brother,” he said.

“Shut up,” Andrew growled, then leaned in and kissed him.

Neil kissed back, but it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t a solution. This wouldn’t last.

Andrew closed his eyes and pressed forward harder.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I come bearing gifts of Neil angst, Neil angst, and more Neil angst!
> 
> Me: Oh, looks like it's time for a Neil chapter! Phew. Less angst.
> 
> Also me: Wait, no, make him SUFFER.
> 
> As always, thank you guys so much for reading! Where ever you are, I hope you are having a wonderful day <3
> 
> PS: I'm apologizing again for the slow updates on this--too many projects going on at once, I'M TRYING!! I'm also apologizing for not answering any comments last chapter. I feel TERRIBLE FOR IT, I love them all so much, you seriously have no idea how excited I get every single time one comes in. They make me smile so big! I just got distracted and overwhelmed and then more overwhelmed, and I'll do a better job this time, I swear!

The nightmares were getting worse.

During the day, he ate, and he went to school, and he went to exy, and he went to therapy, and he went to group therapy, and he went to the library, and he kissed Andrew, and he showered, and he studied, and he kissed Andrew some more.

During the night, he closed his eyes and the dreams came, raking claws through his insides, causing him to cough blood, to smell gasoline, to see the jagged smile of his father carved cruelly across his own face.

Sometimes the dreams choked him, clogging in his throat like sludge. No matter how many times he swallowed, he couldn’t clear the metallic taste of his own fear. He’d already given Andrew more truth than he’d ever given anyone, but sometimes the dreams overflowed into waking hours and he found himself desperate to spill everything, to shove Andrew against the wall, to tell him what it means to be a dead man walking, to speak, and speak, and speak.

_Do you know the sound a man’s leg makes when it’s being cut from his body? It’s the same sound you hear at the butcher when they hack into a cut of beef. It’s meat, Andrew. Nothing but meat, marbled with fat, thick with muscle._

_Do you know that men scream like men for the first while, but eventually they scream just like animals do–long, and shrill, and desperate. Do you know that every man does this? Even the ones who start so brave, even the ones who spit in the eye of death, they all scream. All of them._

_Do you?_

_Do you, Andrew?_

_Do you know that human flesh melts at 162 degrees fahrenheit? Do you know that a vehicular fire can burn up to 1500 degrees fahrenheit? Do you know that I looked these up because I had to know, I needed to know that she was destroyed, that there was nothing left, that they couldn’t trace me._

_Do you know that they traced me anyway? Of course you do. It’s why I’m here._

Sometimes Neil gasped awake and heard Andrew breathing above him–just a little too tightly to be asleep. Sometimes they both laid there in the dead of night, watching the EXIT sign blink red, listening to the tick of the clock, waiting for morning to come so they could start over.

Reset.

Begin again.

The nightmares were getting worse and sometimes Neil was worried that he’d never be able to keep it all in and Andrew would end up burning right along beside him, screaming the way animals scream, dying the way animals die.

***

“Neil.”

The wadded up piece of paper hit Neil square in the forehead, and he blinked, jarred from the clouded fuzz of exhaustion. “What?”

Andrew balled up another piece and threw that too, frowning when Neil didn’t move out of the way. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m fine.” Neil blinked back down at the workbook in front of him and tried to make sense of the grammar page they were supposed to be completing. Another wad of paper hit him in the cheek, then tumbled to his desk. He picked it up absent-mindedly and threw it back at Andrew, not looking up to see if it hit or not.

“You have never been fine.”

“Thanks.”

“Neil.”

Neil grit his teeth and tried to swallow. It was harder than it should have been.

“Neil. Neil. Neil. Neil. Neil. Neil.”

“Minyard!” Mr. Jacobson barked.

“Present!” Andrew called.

Neil just rolled his eyes.

Andrew waited until Jacobson had dropped his eyes back to his phone, then leaned over Neil’s desk. “Stop moping,” he hissed.

“I’m _fine_ ,’ Neil said again, forcing the words out.

“You’re a mess.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“We’re not talking about me.”

“We are now.”

“ _I’m fine_ ,” Andrew parroted, pitching his voice nice and high and whiny.

If Neil had any energy at all, he would have chosen that moment to launch himself across the desks and finally hit him.

He didn’t. He just turned back down to the worksheet, tried to make his brain work enough to process a single sentence, and ignored the way Andrew kept watching him, all the way until the bell rang.

***

He had therapy next. He was used to shutting Betsy out and ignoring her for the hour. Normally he hated it, but today it was one hour less he had to be locked in a room with Andrew, afraid he was going to cut himself open spill every secret he’d ever had all over the linoleum floor.

Bryan tried to chat him up all the way out of the cell block and into the med block. He was friendly enough, so Neil nodded along, but every time they went through a gate and it slammed closed behind them, every time Neil heard the buzzer sound, it got harder and harder to swallow.

By the time he sat down in the chair in front of Betsy’s desk, he was just a little too hot, a little too nervous, a little too desperate to run.

“Hi Neil,” she said kindly. Today, she had her therapist/badass mug on her desk that was filled halfway with black coffee. She didn’t offer Neil anything.

Maybe she was learning.

Neil pulled one knee up on his chair and studied his shoe.

“Last time we talked about your Exy game,” she said, prodding him gently.

Last time she’d talked about the Exy game, and he’d ignored her. Just like every session they’d had over the two months, two weeks, four days he’d been there.

“Neil?”

His eyes flicked back up to her face and he managed a nod, then quickly stared back down at his shoe.

It was worse here.

It was supposed to be better, but it was worse, and the fear and anxiety was eating a hole through his fucking liver, and he just wanted it to stop, and he just wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, anywhere but here, he just wanted his _mom_.

Fuck.

Today was a bad day.

Betsy was staring at him and was like he’d completely forgotten how to be normal. He kept swallowing too much. He thought that he was usually annoyed, but he was also usually bored, so maybe he needed to look like that so she wouldn’t be suspicious? Neil forced his leg back down again because that was how he sat when he was bored. He forced himself to cross his arms over his chest because that’s how he sat when he was annoyed, but now his arms were crossed, and he was picking at his sweatshirt sleeves and he just wanted to move. He swallowed again and picked a place on the desk to stare at, but what if that was his tell, what if he stared right there when he got anxious, fuck he couldn’t remember, so he looked straight at her. Except she was looking back and her eyes looked sad, and he was pretty sure he definitely didn’t look at her normally so he looked over at the fox. But the fox had moved, or he was pretty sure it had moved, it was next to a tiny 2x4 picture frame that had a photo of a kitten, nothing else, she probably didn’t want family shit in here because she was working with a bunch of criminals, she had a family though. She had a family.

He…

He couldn’t swallow, but he also couldn’t breathe, and this was the worst possible time for this, even Andrew was better than this, fuck, fuck, fuck–

Betsy was saying something, probably his name, she wasn’t lunging across the desk or anything, she was just watching him, and talking, her mouth was moving, he watched it–

_Neil. Count. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Let it out. Four. Three. Two. One. Breathe Neil. One. Two–_

She kept saying that, just fucking saying that. If counting worked he would have solved this by himself a long fucking time ago, and he wanted to tell her that, but his mom told him not to say anything, he wasn’t supposed to say anything.

He wasn’t allowed to say anything.

He wasn’t allowed to _be_ anything.

Not even himself.

_Fuck._

“Neil?” Betsy asked.

Her voice sounded underwater, but at least it was a voice now. Neil focused in on it and forced himself to follow her stupid counting, and forced himself to let go of the death grip he had around his own forearms, and fuck, he didn’t want to do this, he didn’t want to do _any_ of this.

Betsy kept counting. Neil kept breathing.

And eventually he pulled his feet up on his chair, wrapped his arms around his legs, and buried his head in his knees, pressing hard enough against them that he could feel the pressure against his eyes.

“Neil.”

“I don’t want to talk,” he said raggedly.

“You don’t have to talk.”

He huffed a broken sounding laugh, which just made everything worse.

“Would you like to keep counting with me?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

She quieted, waiting, probably for him to break, for him to say something, for him to be anything but fucking broken. Neil sucked in another long breath, then closed his eyes tight. He wasn’t allowed to talk. He wasn’t allowed.

 _You talked to Andrew_ , the small voice inside of his head murmured.

Which was a problem. It was a huge, enormous, shitshow of a problem.

“I’m having nightmares,” he said, eyes still squeezed closed.

Even the small omission made his heart kick up inside his chest, and he had to struggle to breath around it.

“Alright,” Betsy said. “Are you able to get any sleep?”

Not _what are they about_ , not _what do you think is causing them_ , not _tell me more._ Neil let out a long breath. “A little?” he said quietly.

“Any estimate on hours?”

“I don’t know. A couple.”

“A couple a night?”

“Yeah. I guess. I don’t know.”

“Okay. Lets start there.”

He nodded. It was probably barely perceptible to her, but he didn’t care. This already felt like he was giving too much of himself away.

“How is the running?”

Neil swallowed. “It’s good.”

“I know that the facility is small, and I’m sorry there isn’t more time I can get for you. Between that and Exy, my hands are a bit tied. Is it helping?”

Of course it was helping, but unless he could run right out of the facility, right out of California, all the way down to Mexico, get a new name, new papers, new life, it wasn’t ever going to be enough. “It’s helping,” he said.

“Good. Are you still having nightmares on those days?”

“On...exy days?”

“Right.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Okay. I really wish I could get you some more time. While it wouldn’t solve everything, so much good can come of fresh air and movement.”

Neil grit his teeth.

“Alright. So we need to find some coping mechanisms, but we also need to find a way for you to sleep. I know you don’t want to talk, but usually when there are nightmares involved to this degree, there are other factors at play. If we could tease out–”

“No.”

“Alright,” she said. “Alternatively, we can look at medication–”

“You already did that.”

“Yes. And I think it isn’t working for you, and I think that I may have been hasty in prescribing anything at all.”

He forced his eyes up over his knees just enough to see Betsy studying him.

“I make mistakes too, you know,” she said.

She was still smiling, but it was more strained now. Neil scrubbed a hand across his forehead, then tucked his head back down again.

“Did you know that 80% of the medication budget at this facility is spent on psychotropic medicines?”

She didn’t say anything else–was clearly expecting an answer–so Neil looked up again. “Why are you telling me this?”

“It’s information that’s publicly accessible. And those statistics are not out of the norm for detention systems across the country. We over prescribe. In some cases, it’s for the best. In others?” She shrugged, then turned in her chair and pulled open the drawer to her file cabinet, rifling through for a moment until she found a folder and pulled it out. “I think that medication is something to be considered in the future. But I think that I was hasty, and I’d like to know a little bit more about your situation before making any further judgements.”

She pulled out a page from the file and began scribbling notes, then pushed it aside and turned to her computer, typing quickly. Neil peaked up far enough to see his name on the top of the page.

“I wasn’t taking them,” he said.

“Hmm?”

“The anxiety meds. I wasn’t taking them.”

She hummed again, finished typing, then sat back in her chair. “And what exactly were you doing with them?”

His cheeks were heating up, and he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and started chewing. “Uh. Not...swallowing them. Throwing them out. Sorry.”

He wasn’t sorry.

Her jaw clenched for a second, then she scribbled another note on a blank sheet of paper and tucked it underneath his file. “No harm no foul I suppose,” she murmured.

She looked back up at him when she was done, studying him through her thick plastic frames. “Do you feel safe in your room?”

Neil gaped at her. “Huh?”

“With your roommate. Do you feel safe? I know that you had your differences early on, and I know that you told me things had resolved, but I’d like to cross our Ts and dot our Is so to speak. Sleeping can be difficult in enclosed quarters if you feel like you are in danger.”

“You’re Andrew’s therapist too.”

“Yes,” she said with a small nod.

“So do you ask him if he feels safe around me?”

“We are talking about Neil Josten right now. You. Not Andrew.”

Neil picked at the sole of his shoe that was tearing away. It was getting worse. There was a pebble lodged right next to the ball of his foot, so he worked at it with a fingernail. “That’s not the issue,” he said.

“Alright. Please let me know if that changes? Or your youth specialist.”

“And get Andrew thrown in solitary?”

“And get you feeling safe again.”

“I feel safe.”

“Good. Are you comfortable telling me what the nightmares are about?”

He kept picking at his shoe. The dregs of panic were still swirling inside of him, close enough to taste. He just wanted to sleep. He just wanted to run. He just wanted his fucking mom, and that was the worst of it all. He shouldn’t need her. She’d spent the last five years forcing him to run, to move, to live, and to do it all without her if something happened.

He was failing.

“Blood,” he said, the word thick and viscous. “Dying. Hurting. Sometimes I’m doing the dying, sometimes I’m doing the hurting. Or killing.” He tried to shrug but his body was too stiff to move. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It sounds like it matters, Neil.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He closed his eyes again and visualized the Spanish text he’d been working in. Tried to run down the list of core vocab words. Tried not to think about the secrets he’d spilled.

Betsy kept carefully prodding at him for the rest of the hour, but he was done. He’d given her enough. He sat in the chair and thought año, reloj, punta, usar, hacer, ver. Fire was a top 100 word. So was car, gas, help, love, and alone.

***

He was herded down to rec time as soon as he finished. Andrew was perched on top of a chair watching the news, but his eyes flicked over to Neil as soon as he stepped in the room. Neil shook his head, then immediately pushed his way outside and started running. There was a clump of boys standing in the corner and that was new–normally that space was unoccupied–but Neil just ignored them, cutting around them and then sliding back against the wall perimeter.

He made it three laps when one of them stuck out a foot.

He went tumbling down hard–lip of his sneaker catching against the gnarled clay dirt–and he barely threw out a hand on the scraggly grass before smashing headfirst into the wall. “Fuck you,” Neil growled, pushing himself back up again.

The new kid–the big one, Jacob–was leaning against the corner of the wall, arms crossed and eyes gleaming. “Watch where you’re going,” he said as his mouth quirked in a grin. The boys around him started laughing at his words, clearly angling for favoritism from the teenage tyrant.

“Fuck you too,” Neil said, throwing his middle finger up. Then he started running again.

He refused to give them a wide berth, refused to give up any ground he’d gained in this hellhole. The anger was there too, boiling deep down inside of him, the same anger that had exploded against Andrew just a few days ago.

He was exhausted.

He was afraid.

He was ready to hurt someone.

Andrew joined him a few laps later, fitting alongside Neil easily. “You tripped,” he said, stating the obvious.

Neil didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked to the group in the corner.

“You’ve gone suspiciously silent, rabbit,” Andrew said as they rounded the bend back towards the door.

“Thought you weren’t calling me that anymore.”

“Neils speak. Rabbits don’t.”

Neil ignored him. He was too tired for this. He just wanted to sleep. He just wanted to stop thinking and with Andrew chattering next to him, that was impossible. If he turned his head and stared, he could see the spattering of freckles across the bridge of Andrew’s nose.

If he turned his head and stared, he could see the exact middle of his forehead–the place a hitman would aim for.

“I thought we were being honest,” Andrew said, huffing a little as he tried to keep up.

“How’s this for honesty? I’m tired. I’m not sleeping. You know I’m not sleeping because you’re not sleeping either. Want to play truths? How about you tell me about your brother.”

“Don’t,” Andrew snarled.

“Look.” Neil pulled to a stop, tangling his hands in his hair for just a second, then dropping them to his sides. “Can we not do this now? The whole back and forth you hate me thing?”

Andrew’s eyes hardened for a second, then he threw up his hands, took an exaggerated step back, then turned and jogged back towards the door, leaving Neil standing awkwardly on the worn down path he’d made from habitual laps.

Neil sighed, then started running again.

The boys in the corner didn’t try to trip him again, but they watched him, eyes narrowed, with every pass he made.

Neil glared back the first few laps, but eventually he tired of that too.

***

_He’s in a classroom._

_It’s a dream classroom, he knows it is because the walls keep turning into fish, and then back to walls again, and in the way of dreams, this makes perfect sense._

_Someone is sitting next to him but everytime he turns his head they move to the other side._

_A phone rings._

_It rings again._

_It rings and rings and rings, and Neil looks down and it’s his phone, one of the burner ones, sitting in the palm of his hand._

_He doesn’t want to answer it._

_Instead, he waits for a text message to come in. It reads Dear Mr. Jacobson, I forgot my homework._

_Neil deletes it._

_A puffer fish looks at him with Andrew’s face, takes a big gulp of water in, then explodes._

_Neil’s wet with water, and he tries to sluice it from his face but it’s sticky, and it’s thick, and it’s not water, it’s blood, it’s Andrew’s blood, it’s everywhere._

_The person next to him moves to the other side again, leaving a mug behind on the desk that reads **49% Therapist 51% Badass.**_

_“Is she dead?” someone asks._

_Neil stands up from the desk and picks up the pieces of Andrew’s face. The skin is leathery. It feels like fish. He’s not sure it was ever really Andrew._

_The person next to him moves to his front and finally he can see._

_“Is she dead, Neil?” his mother asks._

_He tries to ask **who** , but his voice doesn’t work. He’s a puffer fish too._

_“Is she dead?”_

_The blood is dripping into his eyes every time he blinks, and it’s in his mouth now. He doesn’t want to swallow but he can’t open, he can’t speak, he can’t do anything but blink and watch the way his mom flickers in and out of his vision._

_“I hate you,” she says, then picks up the mug and disappears._

_**I hate me too** , he tries to say, but the only thing that escapes his mouth is a single, lonely bubble._

***

Neil gasped awake.

Andrew was breathing above him, slow, and steady, and very much asleep. Neil didn’t want to wake him up, not over this, not over a stupid dream about a phone and a mug, and a stupid fucking fish. He tried to count but now that was tinged with Betsy and he really didn’t want to think about her.

He hated her.

Closing his eyes tight, Neil drew in a breath as slowly as he possibly could. His hands were shaking by his sides. His face was wet.

He took another shuddering breath in and then slowly raised a hand to his face, pressed a finger to his eye, brought it away.

It wasn’t blood.

_It wasn’t blood._

Neil rolled to his side, pulled his knees to his chest, forced himself to keep breathing, forced himself not to wake up Andrew, forced himself not to think about his mom.

It was impossible.

He forced himself not to make a sound as he started to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 points to the person who figures out what plot point I was not-so-valiantly trying to fix in this chapter. (Trying to fix with all the subtlety of a hand grenade...🙄🙄🙄)

**Author's Note:**

> GUYS! Come yell at me? If you want?  
> Follow me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/agentcoop1)  
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://iamagentcoop.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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